


Frozen

by SilverWield



Series: Frozen [1]
Category: Illthdar
Genre: Angst, Divine punishment, Drama, Drug Abuse, Dystopian, F/M, Origin Story, Orphans, Religious Cult, Saving the World, Saviour, Sexual Assault, Strong Women, after the apocalypse, backstabbing, batrayal, enslavement, female strength, fire vs ice, late pregnancy miscarriage, tough mother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-09-24 16:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWield/pseuds/SilverWield
Summary: Before Nyima uv dra C'Deney became an Aetumuh she had a life and family. Vasuman and his hoard of cursed ifrit stole it all, and she was too young and weak to stop him. After years of training and struggling to be half the warrior her mother, Caleen, was, she finds her way to the fabled city of Ym'pree to beg the Aetumuh to give her power enough to take revenge.





	1. Cursed

Vaosynlr, a world out of balance. One half is burning sands and arid deserts. The other, frigid tundras and icy vistas. It wasn't always so.

Once, the four Goddesses: Aukoo, Sylmy, Nyima and Adnu kept the world in harmony. Vaosynlr was a world of green landscapes and cities made of stone. People farmed the land and hunted in the forests. There was law and order, and life.

Aukoo brought the dawn, and with it the hope and promise that hardships would pass and things would begin again. Sylmy gave the blessing of procreation to the people, the certainty that life would continue. Nyima gave the people strength and the will to surpass any trial, no matter how difficult, and Adnu gave them the peace of eternal slumber when their time was at an end.

The people knew their Goddesses, for they walked among them. Each woman reflected what she had given the people, from the golden-skinned Aukoo to the midnight toned Adnu.

For one man, it wasn't enough to linger at the edges of a Goddess's existence. This man became obsessed with the sweetest of the Goddesses: the pale-green skinned, Sylmy. The Goddess of love and procreation, music and celebration, she was full of life and laughter, with a temptress smile freely given to everyone.

Sylmy had no idea the man wanted her so; she was a deity and beloved by all her people. She was no fighter, had no reason to be, and could not prevent the man from taking what he desired; destroying the Goddess's spirit with his foul touch. She ran as soon as she was able. Ran as fast as she could, through crowds of people, who gasped in shock at the ragged Goddess.

Only safe with her sisters did she cry and vent her horror at what was done to her. That one of their people, their creations, could do this to her. It was beyond anything any of them could understand.

Adnu's solution was to end them all, start afresh. Aukoo argued that not all were to blame. Sylmy wanted justice and Nyima was in the centre as the deciding voice.

“I agree,” the blue-skinned Goddess said, silencing the arguing that had gone on for a night and a day. “The people are spoiled by the gifts we have given them. They believe themselves our equals. It is not so! But,” she added in a more kindly tone, “death is too extreme. There are those who are innocent, as Aukoo says.”

“They would not remain innocent for long,” Sylmy replied bitterly. “Those men would learn from the other one, they would become corrupt and evil.”

“Then we should arrange things to best prevent it,” Adnu concluded, in a voice lacking any feeling. “This is our world, and we can order it how we see fit.”

“You would steal hope from them as well, I suppose,” Aukoo said, her voice a sad whisper. She loved her siblings, but she loved the people. “We must give them the chance to earn redemption. It is not all of their fault.” She looked to Nyima, her most likely ally. “Please?”

“If some have to suffer so that others may flourish, then so be it,” Nyima said. When she saw Aukoo's shoulders slump in defeat she added, “Some of the most beautiful flowers grow in the harshest climates. The hope you give them will ensure they find their way.”

Aukoo hummed in agreement, knowing this to be the most compromise she would get, and set her mind to how she could help the people restore balance to the world.

 

 

The fracture came without warning. The world suddenly split as the four Goddesses reordered the landscape.

Fully grown men were gathered up and dumped in the now burning, hot lands to the south. Sylmy stood before them, her face twisted with rage, pale-green skin darkening to a sickening shade of olive. She proclaimed, “You will never know the comfort of a woman; death travels within you! You are a scourge upon women-kind and shall be swept clean from this world!” Her form then vanished before their eyes; she had no wish to keep it, fouled as it was, leaving behind the men to wonder what they had done to offend their Goddess and ask why they were given a death sentence. However, Sylmy neglected to consider one thing: the gift of survival given to the people by Nyima. It would keep the men striving for life, searching for the glimmer of hope promised by Aukoo each dawn. She began a curse with no end.

To the north of the planet, the women and children were set down by Aukoo, who claimed the right to explain why they were also being punished.

“You have become complacent,” she stated in a soft voice. “Your lives have been paradise, and this has led you from the path of morality. One day, you may prove yourselves worthy of paradise again, but until then, here is where you shall stay.” Aukoo also disappeared, her body restricting her ability to maintain the crooked balance that Sylmy claimed was necessary to purify the people. She couldn't totally prevent the world from blooming; the paradise they created had to go somewhere. Hers and her sister's power ensured the barrier between the hot and cold lands was lush and fertile, further taunting the cursed men with the reminder of what they had lost; the land that was fat and blooming just beyond their reach.

“I will not accept this!” It was the cry of many women. They were innocent and stolen from their men and families, dumped in a frozen wasteland.

Groups gathered together their things and travelled back through the treacherous marshes and swamplands until they reached the burning desert where their men waited.

The truth of Sylmy's curse soon came to bear. She could not prevent pregnancy; it was a gift already given to her people. But, as each woman died in childbirth, consumed by flames of retribution for sinning with the men, the babies, born too soon, came with deformities that frightened those still to give birth. As their bellies swelled their bodies weakened, many running back to the frozen lands with tales of monsters growing inside them. The women would burst into flame upon the birth of the baby, resulting in them being called “ifrits”: creatures of fire and ash. These deformed children had deformed children of their own and the tales passed from those in the frozen lands grew further away from the truth, until it was lost completely under the weight of this new lore. The ifrit couldn't help travelling to the frozen lands, once they located the path cut by the women; the curse made them crave feminine touch, and with every woman they kidnapped from the icy lands they only strengthened the curse against them, until they were so deformed and beast-like in appearance that any v’neketyh would argue with all their heart and soulthey were two species and not one.

 

~*~*~

 

There was still hope, however. Few, who could still hear the voices of the absent Goddesses; worthy men and women given the title of Fayth, and listened to the whispers telling of their history, hinting at how to restore the balance.

Under the guidance of the Goddesses, the first Fayth sent out parties of explorers; family groups that would scour the land, going as far north as they could before the harsh weather forced them back to the southern border with news. They searched for the only beings capable of overturning a Goddess's hand: the Aetumuh. Fabled even before the Fracture, they were servants of Order and rumoured to have the power to set right any injustice done to a world.

In a city to the far north there had been a temple, a hall of justice, where the Aetumuh sat in judgement of high matters. When the world became covered in ice, all the cities and towns became lost under a blanket of white. There were no longer any roads or paths to follow to find the city, and the arctic weather gave birth to a disease: frostblight, causing death and loss of limbs to any it touched. It was an impossible journey, but the people had the will to try, and so they journeyed every year from spring to fall when they had to return south.

In the meantime, the Fayth made the exploring families take more and more people with them, which caused in-fighting when couples formed. As a short-term fix, the Fayth decreed a law that stated anyone of the same tribe to be family, and they would be incapable of lying with one of their own. To prove this, they concocted a potion to delay sexual maturity, leaving the men impotent until they gave them an antidote. The newly formed tribes couldn't argue with this, they had the proof with their own eyes; it must be the law of the Goddesses, they said.

Seeing the effect the Fayth had on the tribes, they hoarded information from their people; choosing not to share vital knowledge and allowing other skills already learned to die out in the wake of more _useful_ ones like hunting. They encouraged the formation of a hierarchy based entirely around the warrior class, only permitting those select few already chosen by the Goddesses to join their number and learn healing.

Over the years, the reasons for giving children a potion at birth became one of many mysteries of the Fayth. As well as why they remained so close to the border, but the other tribes had to travel the frozen lands of v’neketyh.

 

~*~*~

 

Time passed and what was new, became old and what was old became a habit and a way of life. The people could not learn any different because they weren't taught any different; the Fayth ensured they were ignorant and reliant on them for guidance. The people still travelled the land, but the reason was lost. Many indulged in fighting and broke the few laws created to prevent in-breeding and the conduct that got them cursed in the first place. These people became outcasts. Few banded together to form rogue tribes that made the harsh, cold world a little more dangerous.  
Nyima, having occasion to see this and, growing angry, gifted the brave some of her great strength. A frozen kiss to those who felt the cold less than the rest, who could then manipulate it to their will and fight back. The toll it took on the Goddess in sharing so much of herself caused her to fade, becoming as insubstantial as her sisters. They were a presence, a whisper, felt or heard by few.  
Adnu, cared little for anything except ensuring death followed its proper course, and became the only Goddess embodied in the land, though she was never much more than a mysterious figure in black seen at grave sites.  
Sylmy, being the Goddess of procreation, could not ignore her duties completely. She slept most of the year, only rising to shower lukewarm blessings on marriage rites, but rarely blessed the couples with many offspring, still feeling bitter towards the people who had betrayed her so utterly.

Nyima and Aukoo were full of sorrow for what their world had become, but, without the agreement of their other sisters, could do nothing other than wait for someone to find the Aetumuh and use their power to set things right.

 


	2. The next Nyima

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of a future hero and foreshadowing of tragedies.

 

“I'm swearing to the Goddess, Cid, that if you are asking me how I am being one more time I will being to sending you to the Eternal Frost!” Caleen narrowed her bright, blue eyes at her husband and he began to back away. “I am being with child, not an invalid!”

The chief of the C'Deney tribe knew it was wiser not to reply, and escaped from their hut, breathing a sigh of relief as he stepped out into the frigid air. He nodded to one of his tribesmen, whose wife was also about to give birth, and began making his way around the portion of the Crux camp given over to visiting tribes.

Though their people travelled the icy lands of v’neketyh for generations, when the time came for babes to be born couples left the tribe and journeyed south to the Crux, where the fayth lived. The acolytes of the four Goddesses were skilled in birthing and other important rituals, that even a tribal chief couldn't conduct. Those newly married also travelled with them to receive the sacred blessing and consummate their unions. Without it, the ceremony wasn't official.

Cid had left the C'Deney in the safe hands of two of his most trusted friends and accompanied his wife, as was tradition – not that she seemed to appreciate his interference. Caleen's temper had steadily grown more volatile the closer she came to the birth; although the last thirteen months as a whole weren't a joy.

Deciding to take a walk and give his wife time to cool down, Cid wandered towards the grave site situated inside a cave to the east of the camp. His parents were entombed here, and he wanted to talk to them and tell them of the joy about to come.

 

“I'm being asking for you to forgiving me,” he said to the woman cloaked in black, crouched by another tomb. “My kin are being over there.” He gestured to a spot slightly further back where two pillars of ice stood containing the frozen remains of his parents. His mother died in childbirth many years before his father was taken and her youthful beauty next to his haggard and wrinkled form made Cid all the more sad at how many years they had been parted before Adnu reunited them.

“Not all follow the same path,” the woman in black said, though Cid hadn't voiced his thoughts. “Tragedy is often the spear against the back that forces one off a cliff into the unknown.”

Cid nodded at this; he remembered lessons from his father that echoed this sentiment, and were foremost in his mind when it came time to lead the tribe. His father would be proud of him, he was sure.

“He is,” the woman said, rising to her feet and drawing back her hood.

Cid fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the icy ground. “Blessed Adnu! I'm being sorry, I didn't––”

“I think you are the one who is blessed,” the Goddess said in a dry tone. The tall, regal woman with midnight skin, scattered with stardust freckles eyed him with a cool, silver gaze. “Do not waste your gifts.”

“No, no, I won't! Thank you!” There was the briefest brush of Adnu's cloak against his splayed fingertips as the Goddess passed him. Still, he stayed where he was, mind reeling at having been in the presence of the Goddess of Death. The fayth spoke of Adnu walking among the people still, but the tales from those who met her were few and far between. Many claimed they were stories from frost-addled minds. “She's real,” he whispered, sitting up when he began to feel a pain in his head from pressing it too firmly to the ground. He looked at the tomb Adnu knelt in front of and saw it was that of a mother holding a baby. _The Goddess must have come to personally escort them to the Eternal Frost. How kind she is._

“Did you being seeing that?” he said to his parents, once he gathered his wits enough to go and greet them. “Adnu. The Goddess Adnu,” he repeated, still unable to believe it. “She is being to blessing me. Why? Who am I being to deserving such a thing from the lips of a Goddess herself?”

 

~*~*~

 

When Cid got back to the camp he heard the sound of a newborn's cry, that mingled with the dying notes of a hymn. Babes born during the season of Nyima were said to be strong warriors, if they survived. He thought of the fresh tomb he saw and quietly prayed this family would be all right.

“Have you a name yet?” he said to his kin, as the babe's father exited the hut, having been allowed a brief greeting with his newborn. Men were driven from the bedside by the fayth. It was tradition birth was a mystery reserved for the fayth and the mother.

“The fayth is being to suggesting Lumin, after Lady Lumia,” the tribesman replied, pulling a face. “I'm prefering Ubon,” he whispered, sliding his eyes to the hut, as though the women inside could hear him. They probably could. Fayth had the blessing of the Goddesses and seemed to know things that no one else did.

“It's being your babe,” Cid replied, but knew his kin wouldn't outright defy them. Perhaps one day, but not today.

The man frowned and nodded. “Lady Acarna is being the one who is helping with the birthing and she is being more generous with namings.”

“Thanking yourself lucky she isn't suggesting a wholly female name for your son,” Cid chuckled.

“You need to being praying for a daughter in that case; Lady Frejari is being known to give babes her name alone.”

Cid pulled a face. He didn't want his baby to be named after that sour-faced fayth. Frejari was the oldest among them, the most experienced, the most arrogant. Cid and she did not see eye to eye on any subject, especially the one of his wife's imminent birthing. He wanted to be inside the hut with Caleen, but Frejari proclaimed it, “Not our way”. Well, Cid was interested in making his own way. Traditions only became such after time passed, but before that time could pass someone had to lead the way; Cid uv dra C'Deney was a born leader.

Slapping his kinsman on the back and offering his congratulations, he returned to his and Caleen's hut.

 

~*~*~

 

“Out, out!” Frejari declared to Cid, as her helpers bustled around Caleen, preparing her to give birth. She was stripped, bathed and given a piece of anointed bark to bite down on when the pain became too much. She was positioned leaning against an ice plinth with fur padded grooves for her arms to rest in. She would remain standing to better help the birthing and only once the baby was born would she be allowed to lie down. If she grew too weak there were two helpers to hold her up, as was their people's way.

“You will being having to do more than flick your fingers at me,” Cid replied, crossing his arms over his broad chest and levelling her with a look that spoke volumes.

“It is not being our way!” The elderly fayth shook her fist, silver hair flying.

“It is being  _my_ way,” he argued.

“I'm wanting him to stay!” Caleen had her back to them, rocking from side to side whenever a contraction hit and hissing her way through the pain. She managed to draw enough breath to say this then grunted, gritting her teeth. She refused the anointed bark, having heard whispers of it bringing on hallucinations and excess bleeding. Besides, she was a brave and proud warrior; she could endure any pain.

“My Lady?” One of Frejari's two helpers paused in gathering blankets and cooled water, and looked to the elderly woman. “Shouldn't we being doing what is right for the babe?”

Cid hid his smile at the young tribeswoman; she was one of his, who Caleen had requested be at the birthing for support if Cid couldn't remain.

“It is being right for the babe that a man not being present!” Frejari's thin and narrow frame shook with righteousness. “Babes are the gift of innocence; blessings to us by Sylmy. You are risking angering her for your own selfish pride?”

“I'm doubting the Goddess is taking offence at me being wanting beside my wife when the gift we are  _both_  being given enters this world!” Cid's bravado was partly born from his meeting with Adnu; the Goddess of Death blessed him. It would be a double-edged sword, but it was still divine acknowledgement. His wife was about to give birth to a child they wanted for the six years of their union; he would not leave!

Frejari glared at Caleen's naked back and then at Cid, who stood tall and calm beside the dug out pit filled with a slow burning peat used to warm all ice huts. “This is not being done!” she said, finding herself unable to argue why Cid should be outside. _The orders of the fayth were never disobeyed! It was for the best!_ She opened her mouth to order him out again, then sucked in a breath and went very still, tilting her head to one side and shutting her eyes, as if listening to another, more important voice. “The Goddess is saying you may stay,” she said at last, opening her eyes again. “You are being braver than other men, says our Blessed Nyima.”

Cid's blue eyes widened, and as before in the graveyard with Adnu, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “I'm being thanking the Blessed Nyima for this honour.” It was unheard of for Nyima to be present during birthings; the Goddess was more known for an icy touch in the midst of battle, gifting the brave with magic to manipulate ice. He wondered for a moment if Sylmy or Aukoo would also appear to complete the holy quartet.

Frejari touched the top of his dark head and then turned back to focus on Caleen, who also bowed her head, quietly humming and rocking her way through her contractions.

 

Many hours passed with no sound from the hut other than the voices of the fayth and her helpers singing a holy hymn to rouse Sylmy and the other Goddesses, and connect the new life with those who passed into the Eternal Frost.

The cry of the baby came as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shades of brilliant gold and blinding white across the landscape. The last rays turned the snow red, as though blood were spilled. It was a divine reminder to Cid that Adnu's blessing didn't come for free.

Having cleaned and swaddled the newborn, Frejari cradled it to her chest, looking down into the innocent face. “Looks like her, thankfully,” she commented to Cid, who narrowed his eyes at the insult. “Her naming is to being Frejari.”

“She will not,” he argued. “We are being in the presence of a Goddess, one gifted for survival. She is coming to us and giving us _her_ blessing for our child. Would you being to insult the Blessed Nyima by denying the child her name in honour?”

Frejari would look petty if she refused. She, who had the ear of Goddesses, knew that Nyima walked the battlefield. She was shocked to stillness on hearing the matter-of-fact tone telling her Cid had a powerful destiny and she should not stand in his way. Frejari hid her fury and somehow managed to pass the blessing onto Cid, though she wanted to curl her fingers into his black hair and rip it out by the roots. _How did a man have a powerful destiny, blessed by the Goddesses? It was men who caused all this!_ Frejari felt betrayed in that moment, though she smiled grimly and nodded in agreement. “Yes. The Goddess's honour in a naming should being on the child, and the child will have much to live up to with such a name.” She made it sound as though the baby was cursed.

Caleen, who was made comfortable on a bed of furs, held her arms out for the baby. “My _j'throk,”_ she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “My Nyima.”

“Yes, your Nyima,” Frejari agreed, handing the baby to her.

 

~*~*~

 

With the newly wedded couples having received their blessing, and those preparing to birth having done so, the small group set out a few days later, returning north to meet up with their tribe, though they would all soon be back again at the Crux camp to weather out the worst of the winter season. The trackers among their party took point, one being the man who Cid spoke to previously. His name was Kellon and he succeeded in swaying the fayth into naming his child Ubon, which made Cid very proud. All of his people were of the similar mind that the way things were done wasn't the way they should always be done. He and another tribe chief, Sen, often spoke at length on the matter whenever the two tribes met up, which was more often than they told the fayth. No one knew the reason for it, but the holy ones didn't want the tribes to have too much contact outside of their grounds and were annoyed whenever couples came saying chiefs married them. Of course, Cid strived to unite as many of his people as he could, and not just to annoy Frejari and her kind. It was laughable to think the Crux had a chief, since Frejari led every gathering and did so for the past sixty years. She would continue to do so for another fifty if Adnu didn't take her sooner.

Having been staring a spot on the back of his mount's head as they rode three abreast through the densely packed snow, Cid glanced over at his wife, who had their babe strung across her chest in a sling. He couldn't describe the emotion that welled within him. He had plans for his sweet Nyima, and his whole tribe. Their people didn't deserve such uncertainty in their lives, and now he was a father, he felt that more strongly than ever. The risks their people took were for what? They travelled north, following well worn trails that suddenly ended. They would then forge ahead into the unknown, only to turn back when the bitter frost of Adnu's season came upon them. To do otherwise was to risk frostblight. Rejoining the other tribes in the south, they waited for the thaw and then repeated the trip all over again. Only the Fayth knew the reason why they did this and they weren't talking. Cid frowned, he knew the fayth were the voices of the Goddesses, but that shouldn't mean they weren't accountable.

“Your face will being for to freeze that way if you frown any longer.” Caleen's mellow voice cut through his thoughts and Cid smiled at her.

“Just being thinking.”

“I can being for to telling,” she said, amused. “My dreamer, who is wanting to change the world. You cannot being doing so by force alone.”

Cid shrugged, bashful at how well his wife knew his innermost thoughts. He and Sen discussed merging their tribes into one. Both were chiefs, so both were of the mind that they should lead, which was one of a few sticking points in their discussions. Sen's wife brought up the option of marrying their son to a daughter, if Cid had one. Their people didn't usually begin to think of marriage until their fourth decade, once they did their duty as warriors to the tribe.

“ _If they are being younger, they are stronger,” Inoa offered, sapphire eyes going to where her young son lay napping in her arms. Taran was barely two and she already suspected the potion he was given at birth was something to delay his maturity – to make him focus only on being a warrior, until he had little strength left to pass onto a new generation. She didn't want him to suffer the same sadness and struggles she had to have children._

Cid thought this was an interesting idea, something none of them considered before. “A girl, Caleen,” he said, nodding towards the sleeping baby. “A son would also being a blessing as well, but a girl is ours. Do you not being for to considering the Goddesses gave her to us as a sign that our plans have their blessing? That they are wanting the same thing we do?”

Caleen shook her head, the beads on the end of her dark braids clicking together. “I do not being knowing, husband.” She looked down at the baby, also. “But, I am being knowing if you fight against fate it will strike you down.”

Cid snorted. “How are we being for to knowing what fate even is? Is it what the fayth are being telling us? Or is it the path we are being for to cutting for ourselves? Sometimes we hold the spear and sometimes it is at our back.”

“You are the one being cut with the spearing if you are not being for to acting with some caution,” she shot back in a stern hiss. “You are being wanting to run to some shining future, but the only thing that glitters in this place is the light upon the frost.”

“Aukoo gifts us with the light to being showing us that hope is everywhere and in everything.”

Caleen made a frustrated sound in her throat. “Everything being in this world is for killing and you are being having us for to changing everything, risking everything,” she looked down at the baby again, “for what?”

“For paradise,” he murmured.

“Paradise is being what you are making of it.”

Cid fell silent, knowing he wouldn't change his wife's opinion, but confident she would follow the tracks he made. Caleen was a strong warrior, given the gift of Nyima's frozen touch during one particularly hard battle in her youth. The marks of which were still visible: a scar from a spear lay over her heart. It should have killed her, but Caleen was doubly blessed in that her heart lay on the other side of her chest. She rose up, with Nyima's gift chilling her fingers, and froze half the invading, rogue tribe. The rest run, as well they should.

 

~*~*~

 

The group made good time, but several days passed before Kollen called out that he'd found the tribe's trail. Once they had the exact direction it was only a couple of days more and they were back among the C'Deney.

“My babe!” Cid proclaimed proudly, as they gathered around the approaching group. “Nyima!” He held her up and the baby blinked sleepily at all the fuss and noise. She was passed around like a precious jewel, along with the other new arrival, so they could be greeted properly. Caleen was heard telling how Cid shouted down Frejari to remain in the hut for the birth and how they were blessed by a Goddess's presence.

“My brother,” Maskam greeted his chief, slapping him on the back. “In truth, I'm don't being knowing what to say. I am being never for to hearing of the Blessed Nyima speaking to the fayth on such matters.”

“I'm being the same way, as well,” Cid agreed, “but, it happened. Frejari is looking as if she has being sucking on yellow snow when Blessed Nyima is intervening.”

“Why is the Goddess wanting you being at the birth?”

Cid shrugged, not wanting to share his thoughts so soon. “I'm don't being knowing, but I'm being telling you this, brother, it is worse than any injury you could ever gain in battle.”

 


	3. Two years old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At two years old, Nyima is an adorable and curious toddler, but someone wants to destroy the innocent babe.

 

The winter season was upon them. The tribes of v’neketyh gathered in the south, where the weather was less harsh. It was still cold; the ground blanketed with a thick layer of snow, but over the rise was an explosion of greenery. The jungles of the borderlands stretched from east to west as far as the eye could see. For the most part they were unexplored, home to dangerous beasts and treacherous swamplands. Only the most experienced hunters accompanied the Fayth to collect the vital herbs needed to perform the mysterious art of healing.

The Crux's village of ice huts was ten times the size it was during birthings. The tribes jostled for space. There were shouts of friendly competition between the Ice-Weavers and the Builders as to who could put up the most huts the fastest. Given the Weavers used magic they had an edge, but as long as the Builders pre-cut their ice bricks they had a fair game. It was a familiar sight whenever camps were set up; a way to speed up putting together shelters, and make it more enjoyable.

A large patch of ground was cleared of snow, although fat, white flakes tried their hardest to cover it up again. Here would be a mix of combat and dancing. Fighting during the day and celebrating at night, with instruments carved from ice.

From inside some of the huts was the sound of laughter, as games were played. People sat around a diamond shaped board, using hand carved playing pieces. The object of the game was to capture the opposing Chief piece, without having their own boxed in. Games were played on the go, as well. The tribes-people visualised the board and pieces and shouted moves to each other when they crossed paths.

 

Sitting outside her hut, Caleen nodded respectfully to a passing Fayth, then turned to her husband's sister, Temia. “Are you being sure you are being wanting to being one of them?”

“I'm being thinking we can being agreeing I am not being the greatest warrior,” the younger woman replied with a wry smile. Her black hair was cut short, with several small braids throughout. Her dark blue eyes and round face had an immaturity to them, despite her being full grown. Temia was Cid's sister by blood and still had a few years to go before she could qualify as a Fayth's apprentice. Even then, it would be several more before they knew whether the Goddesses would accept her as a Fayth.

“It could be for to being for nothing,” Caleen reminded her, still unable to understand why Temia wanted to join them.

“As Fayth, I'm being able to learn so many secrets, things that can being helping our people,” Temia said in a whisper, knowing the Fayth would refuse her if they knew what she planned. “Cid is right, they should not being for to keeping secrets from us and letting us suffer.” Innocent she may have appeared, but Temia had as much wit and cunning as an experienced trapper.

Caleen sighed, “I know.” She heard the argument many times from her and Cid, and Sen uv Nyx as well. She wanted a better life for her people too, but the risks involved did not weigh well against the benefits, unknown as they were. Caleen wanted to be certain of the path ahead before she threw her weight behind it; her daughter's future was part of it. She looked to where Nyima sat playing and gasped, “Where is she!?” Caleen bolted to her feet and looked around, panic filling her breast and making her heart beat hard. “I'm being only taking my eyes off her for a moment!”

Temia rose and ran around the hut looking for Nyima. “She's being not here!” She circled the structure and almost ran into Caleen.

“You are being going that way and I shall being going this way. She cannot being far!” Caleen weaved her way around the huts, stopping to ask everyone she saw if they'd seen her babe. Nyima would come to no harm within the village, but they were close to the border. There were many things in the jungles and swamplands, to say nothing of the ifrits in the deserts beyond. Though, Caleen couldn't believe a tiny j'throk could get so far, so fast.

“Forgive me,” she said, grabbing a Fayth by the wrist, “have you being seeing my babe?”

“If I am, how am I being to know?” the woman replied, shaking her off. “They're all looking the same.”

“There is being speaking a woman who is not being blessing of Sylmy,” Caleen spat, pushing past her. It was true that all v’neketyhns shared a common appearance of black hair, pale skin and blue eyes, but there were marked differences between them if one knew what to look for; and a mother _always_ knew her child.

 

~*~*~

 

Little Nyima, barely two years old, was sitting on a patch of strange, green stuff. It felt odd under her little fingertips and she giggled, brushing it back and forth. “Nice,” she said, patting it and making kissing noises. She looked up and pointed at more funny, green stuff. “Wha?” she said, looking around for an adult to answer. “Ma?” Nyima got to her feet and toddled a few steps. “Ma? Ma? Ma? Ma?” She plonked back down, face crumpling. “Ma!” A rustling from the green things made her stop crying. “Ma?” An orb of pink light bobbed about and Nyima tilted her head at it. “Wha?” She pointed and looked for her mother again. “Ma?” She remembered she was alone and sobbed.

The orb of light burst from the foliage, revealing itself to be a cross between a bear and a bat. It had dark brown fur and leathery-looking wings. The pink glow came from a jewel embedded in its forehead. “Bwarg?” it said, settling beside her.

Nyima stopped crying again. “Ma,” she said, scrubbing her face with her little fists.

The funny creature patted her on the head with a small paw. “Bwarg,” it said, in a way that made it sound like an instruction.

“Ma,” Nyima replied, getting up again.

Another rustle from the greenery. Nyima took a step towards it, only to be held back by the bat-bear. “Bwarg,” it said, shaking its head. “Bwarg.”

Green turned orange and Nyima's light-blue eyes widened. “Bad,” she whispered, clutching the creature and twisting around. She spotted the ice huts in the distance and cried out, “Ma!”

Heat wafted towards them and the bat-bear grabbed hold of Nyima and picked her up, straining under her weight and flapping its wings furiously. “Bwarg,” it grunted, half dragging, half flying Nyima away from the approaching danger.

 

They crashed into some snow a few feet from the first hut and Nyima wailed for her mother. “Ma! Ma! Ma!”

Cid heard her and came running, sliding to a halt when he saw the suukma brushing snowflakes from its head. Caleen rushed past him, uncaring of the creature, and scooped up her baby. “Nyima,” she murmured, kissing the sobbing child's chubby cheeks. “My babe!”

The suukma rubbed the crystal in its forehead and said, “Bwarg.” It nodded once, then fluttered off back towards the jungle.

“Did you see that?” Cid said in a daze to his wife, as he stroked Nyima's head. “A suukma.”

Caleen didn't even care at this point; she was happy Nyima was safe. “I'm never letting you out of my sight again,” she said to Nyima.

 

~*~*~

 

“How is she even being for to getting that far away?” Cid mused later that night, standing behind his hut and talking in a low voice to Sen. The other Chief's people arrived that evening and the two made a habit not to be seen together too often, having picked up from the Fayth that close ties between tribes were viewed with suspicion. However, Cid couldn't help but consult with his friend on this matter.

“Someone is being taking her,” Sen replied, not wanting to consider such a thing in the heart of the Crux camp. The second he heard about it he had told Inoa to keep a tight hold on Taran, just in case a rogue tribesman sneaked into the area.

“Who? Who is being taking a babe and leaving her out there?” Children were innocent and precious and rare among the tribes. Any born were treated as a gift to all and the caring of them was shared between everyone.

“Someone who is being knowing about our plan?” Sen suggested, shrugging. “Or someone you are being making an enemy of.”

“That is being the Fayth,” Cid replied, shaking his head. “Though not even they are being for to risking such a thing.” He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “At least no harm is being coming to her. Have I being saying a suukma is bringing her back?”

Sen chuckled, “Several times. It's understandable a path-finder is being getting to her first if it is nearby.”

“There is being divine influence at work today.” He didn't know which Goddess to thank, so gave offerings to each of them at sundown. His child was safe and that was all that mattered in the end.

 

~*~*~

 

The Fayth stumbled over vines and swatted at bugs flying into her face. All the while she muttered dark oaths under her breath at being the one sent out into the jungle at night to find out what went wrong. Frejari was furious when she spied the C'Deney Chief's j'throk back safely.

“ _You are supposed to having being leaving her at the border!” The elderly Fayth's voice didn't rise above a whisper, but her rage was ice cold._

“ _I did!” she replied, not thinking to hold her tongue._

“ _I'm being seeing her! Do not being lying to me!” Frejari paced back and forth like a caged animal, the many fine layers she wore swirling about as though buffeted by strong winds. “Going to the border and telling him she's not being there anymore.” Frejari's eyes flicked over the younger woman; she was still within child bearing age, and might just be enough to placate the ifrit waiting. Perhaps it was all for the better that Nyima returned to the camp. Giving an innocent to ifrit wasn't her best idea. She wanted to strike back at Cid for his many and continued insults, but she would find a better way. In the meantime...“What are you still being doing here? Go!”_

“You're older than she said.” The growling voice of the ifrit made the Fayth halt in her tracks. She was so busy berating Frejari in her mind she failed to notice the fiery aura of the beast-man.

“I am being a Fayth,” she proclaimed in a cold voice. “I am being here to telling you that the one who is for to being promising for you is being back with the tribe, so you can being going back where you came from!”

The ifrit's lips drew back, revealing blackened gums and sharp, white teeth. “Is that so?” he said in a voice that was all the more sinister for its lisping lilt. His blue eyes narrowed to slits and a clawed hand darted out to snatch hold of her arm, his burning touched scalding her chilled skin.

“No, letting me go!” She screamed and struggled, but was no match for his superior strength. He picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “No! I am being a Fayth of the Crux tribe!”

“Ursn!” the Ifrit yelled, and the same suukma as before appeared. “Take me back,” he ordered, pointing vaguely to the south.

The suukma's wings flapped furiously. It turned and sped off through the jungle, leaving a glowing, pink trail for the ifrit to follow. The furry creatures had little choice but to do as the beast-men said. They were friendly, curious and far too easy to catch; it also turned out they were very tasty. Whenever a suukma's gem lost its glow they were dinner.

The ifrit secured the struggling woman, giving her a clout round the head to knock her out, and then plodded after Ursn; he knew the creature was responsible for the little girl going missing when he arrived at the place. The fuzzy thing returned a few moments afterwards repeating, “Bwarg,” at him until he roared at it to shut up. Little girls were useless, babes even more so. He didn't need some furball telling him that. The Fayth promised him a woman, and if Ursn hadn't taken the child back to the village, a woman he would have in the mother or another who came to fetch her. Instead he was stuck with some ageing hag. The ifrit snorted to himself; these women were so pompous, but a woman was a woman was a woman, and at least this one was already mature enough to breed on. He had several clansmen who were almost rabid with need and she would have to be enough to satisfy them until the warmer weather came and they could trek into the icy territories looking for the pale tribeswomen to bring back and claim as their own. The ifrit could have taken the risk and attacked now, but with the full might of the tribes gathered they were no match, and none of them was stupid enough to take the risk. While they waited for the thaw they would sneak and take anyone unwise enough to wander too close to the border; it was their only choice if they didn't want to be driven mad with fever-lust.

 


	4. Four years old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At four years old, Nyima meets Taran uv Nyx

 

“Chief!” The scout weaved his way towards Cid, chest heaving from running. “Up on the ridge,” he said, pointing to the top of the cliff the tribe settled beside for the next few days.

Not being a mind reader, Cid gestured for the boy to continue.

“We are being spotting a tracker.”

This was potentially bad news; rogue tribes still used many of the ways of the people, so the tracker could be a threat. For this reason alone any sighting of another tribe carried a sense of danger.

Cid looked around for a likely helper. “Brael,” he called to the warrior of middling years. “For to going with Irin and protecting him if they turning out to being hostile.”

The scout looked up at the grizzled warrior. “Trying to keeping up, old man,” he joked, earning a gentle cuff round the head. The pair departed at a jog, with Brael pausing to snatch up a large bone-blade axe resting by a hut on his way; it didn't belong to him, but beggers couldn't be choosers. Everyone they passed was given the message another tribe was coming and to go to the chief for their orders.

Cid organised his people. “Atia, being for to making preparations with the warriors; taking Sal and Inka with you. Heren, being getting the elder _j'throk_  to clearing through the camp, we don't being wanting anything blocking the way. Sorcha, the babes are being your responsibility. We must being for to being preparing for either outcome!” He went on issuing orders like this until there was no one left before him, except one small child. He crouched down, the snow crunching beneath his knee, cold seeping into his leather knee pad. “Are you being liking a job to do?” he asked, blue eyes twinkling.

Nyima nodded furiously. “I wanna help!”

“Do you not being wanting to go with Sorcha?”

“No!”

Cid chuckled. “All right!” He stood up and lifted his four year old daughter onto his shoulders. “You being keeping an eye out for anyone shirking their duties.” _She will be safer with me than anyone._

“Yes!”

Sitting regally on her father's shoulders, Nyima yelled at everyone they passed with no exceptions. On one hand, weapons were being taken up and armour helped into; the heavy leather gave free movement but was still strong enough to stop a few arrows before it gave in. On the other, men and women were subtly tidying themselves; if the tribe was friendly there was the chance they would meet someone and when everyone carried a similar appearance, anything they could do to stand out mattered.

The whytkins were herded into a hut farthest from the approaching tribe. Sorcha enlisted Temia, who was limping from having crocked her ankle leaping off a mount; Cid's sister wouldn't be much help if they were fighting, but she was still able to defend the babes to the death if need be.

“Temia, being careful!” Nyima screamed at her aunt, making her jump, then laugh and wave to the little girl.

Preparations seemed completed in an instant, which pleased Cid with how quickly his tribe reacted; they were a force to be reckoned with.

“Stopping making a mess!” Nyima giggled as Irin returned, sliding to a halt in front of them. “You're putting snow everywhere!”

He grinned and stuck his tongue out at her. “Chief,” he said to Cid in a respectful voice. “The other tribe's token.” He handed a palm-sized, bone tablet out.

“Where's Brael?” Cid asked, wanting to make sure both of them had come back safely.

“Staying with them,” Irin replied. “He is being saying him and one of theirs is in the middle of a game and he is wanting to getting on with it.”

The Chief laughed, guessing who Brael was speaking of. “Yes, they are being playing the same game for...three years now.”

Irin pulled a face. “Are they not being any good?”

“The problem is they are both being  _very_  good,” Cid confided. “Go being spreading the word, no one has to worry.” He glanced down at the token to confirm it was who he assumed. “It's the Nyx.”

“We're being not fighting them?” Nyima asked, as the boy ran off.

“Ah, I'm forgetting you're being up there, little one. You're being so quiet!” Cid jiggled her and she laughed. “No, we're not being fighting them. The Nyx are being old friends.” It was several years since the two tribes met away from the Crux, and the times they were together in the south there was little chance for the tribes to interact in the way the two men wanted. The last time Cid saw them, Sen was celebrating Inoa's impending birthing; the couple were anxious for children before they had Taran, and Inao's desire for more babes hadn't waned in the years between. “She is being having it by now,” he mused.

“Having what, Da?” Nyima tilted her head. “Can I see it?” She tried reaching for the token and Cid handed it to her.

“Careful with that. Sen is not being too happy to have to carving another. His talent isn't being great.”

Nyima ran her finger over the markings on the stone, taken with it as only a small child can be.

Moving through the collection of huts, Cid hid a smile as he saw warriors stripping down and changing into more decorative clothing, others polishing weapons to a high shine, and yet more carefully examining their gaming boards and pieces for any defects; visitors were a time for merriment and matchmaking, with an eager atmosphere filling the air as everyone hurried to prepare their most impressive attributes hoping to secure a mate. They permitted only those most seasoned warriors with a minimum of fifteen years under their belts to marry according to the Fayth's laws, but it didn't stop younger ones from looking.

“Why you being laughing, Da?” Nyima pulled on a lock of her father's dark hair to get his attention.

“I am being thinking of the effort I'm going to when I'm meeting your mother. She is being one of her tribe's best warriors. I'm being seeing her a few times at the Crux gathering, but I'm being thinking she's never going to noticing me.” Cid chuckled at the thought of his youthful self; all the years he'd waited until his father said he was mature enough to make an offer for Caleen. He remembered worrying that each time his father denied his request she would find someone else, but she never did. “I can being barely telling her mine name when I'm being finally meeting her properly.”

As Nyima giggled at her father being tongue-tied there came a shout.

“There she is!”

“Ah, I'm being thinking of you!” Cid reached out with one arm to draw his wife into an embrace.

“Really?” Caleen said sternly, though she was smiling. “I'm being thinking of where our daughter is, but I should being knowing she's being wherever you are.” She shook her head, even as she moved to kiss Cid. “Come here, Nyima,” she said, reaching for the little girl.

“No!” Nyima replied, stubbornly. “Wanna being stay with da.”

“Tch! What is the other tribe being saying if they're seeing the Chief's daughter looking like a woolly-gator?”

Cid passed Nyima over, ignoring her protests. “Your mother is right, _j'throk.”_

Nyima glared as only a four year old can, but let her mother lead her away, as her father mimed being struck through the heart at such a look, making her giggle.

 

~*~*~

 

“ _Rammu, Sen uv Nyx!”_ Cid clasped the man's wrist with one hand and lightly slapped his shoulder with the other. “It's been too long, my friend.”

“ _Rammu, Cid uv dra C'Deney,”_ Sen returned the greeting. “It is being that, old man.”

“Old man!” Cid laughed and gestured at the few strands of silver in Sen's hair. “Which of us is being old?”

“Ah, time is catching you too, one day,” he chuckled, but there was a sad edge to it.

“Never!”

The rest of the tribes moved to greet each other; those that were friends quickly falling into conversation, as others who were looking for a mate greeted the person who caught their interest; they would fill the next thirteen days with merriment and many amusements as the tribe sought to become closer entwined.

Cid gestured for Caleen to come forward, bringing Nyima with her. “You are being for to remembering my wife and daughter,” he said.

Caleen inclined her head, though her eyes moved past Sen to search for Inoa.

Nyima frowned up at Sen.

“My, this one is being serious,” he said, crouching down to look the little girl in the eye.

“We being gonna war with you, but then we weren't. I'm gonna be a warrior! My da is being saying you can't carving tokens,” Nyima said in a single breath.

“He is being saying that, is he?” Sen looked at Cid with raised eyebrows.

“Children,” Cid replied with a shrug.

“What are you being thinking of my token?” Sen asked Nyima.

“I'm being carving better.”

“Nyima!” Caleen berated. “Where is Inoa?” she said to Sen. She grew worried when he dodged answering again.

Sen laughed loudly and Nyima smiled and began to giggle. “Taran, come here!” he called over his shoulder and a skinny little boy of about seven, with black hair, pale-blue eyes and a melancholy look stepped forwards. “My son,” he began in a confiding voice to Nyima, “is being very sad for a long time.” He glanced up at Caleen and a fleeting emotion passed over his face, before he focused on Nyima once more. “His mother is being for to weaving lace in the Eternal Frost, so he is no longer smiling.” He gestured for her to come closer, as Caleen smothered a gasp. “I'm being thinking you have a gift for making others smile, would you being sharing it with Taran?”

Nyima's light-blue eyes widened slightly and she nodded seriously. “I will!” she said firmly.

“Good girl,” Sen smiled and stood up.

“Blessings on your wife,” Caleen said, blinking rapidly, as Nyima shook her hand free and ran over to Taran.

“Yes, many blessings,” Cid added, eyeing the two children as his daughter tried to get Taran to pay attention to her. “She won't being giving up until he's smiling,” he said.

“It is being a gift if he does,” Sen replied, staring sadly at his son. His wife's death was a recent tragedy to the tribe; she was absorbed by a vmyh along with two others taken by surprise by the gelatinous monsters while on their way to the Crux for Inoa's birthing. It still gave him nightmares, but he had to remain strong for his son's sake. He refused to wonder about the babe that never had the chance for life, but the event strengthened his resolve to change their people's ways. His wife shouldn't have died, and neither should those who didn't have the chance to properly confirm their wedding rites. The surviving man and woman were lost and confused, Sen was too, but didn't know how to help them; he failed as a Chief, warrior and husband.

 

~*~*~

 

The Nyx tribe stayed with the C'Deney for a few days and already both Chiefs were being asked to preside over marriage unions. It was encouraging, but nothing was settled yet; there was still time.

“Nyima will being getting him smiling again, you will see,” Cid said, drawing his friend from his thoughts, as he and Sen watched the two little ones run off to play.

“I'm being thinking you are testing fate with this plan,” Caleen said as the two men returned inside the hut. She and Temia were sitting on cushions in front of a low, circular table. “We should not for to being forcing children to being together.”

“We're not being forcing them,” Sen argued calmly, taking a seat. “We're being merely encouraging them.” It was his wife's desire that Taran be strong when he married; she had the idea that his youth would allow him to have children more easily. It was all Sen could do to ensure her wish was carried out.

Cid hummed in agreement. “If they're being marrying young they can being uniting the tribes for far longer. We're being leading together, in council, until they are maturing enough to do it and by then it will be second nature to them, and everyone else, that we are being one.” It was a sound plan, he thought. “The Goddesses must being for to agreeing; why else are they giving us a daughter?”

“I'm being believing some of them agree,” Temia said, in her soft voice. She wasn't far off the time when she would have the chance to have children of her own, if she found a suitable mate. She promised she would carry out the C'Deney tribe's dream and pursue the path of the Fayth, no matter where she ended up.

“Caleen, I'm being understanding you're worrying,” Sen spoke up. “Mine own wife has for to being also, but she says to me the way things are now is not for to being the way they remain. We are a people of the ice, yes, but it's also trapping us. Unless we're being for to being finding a way to break free it will eventually kill us.”

“That is if the rogue tribes or the Ifrit do not first,” Temia added darkly.

Caleen threw her hands up in frustration. “I see I am being out in this bout, so I will being withdrawing. But,” she said standing up and levelling them all with a speaking look, “if my daughter is being unhappy with how you are being for to managing her life I  _will_ put an end to this.” She left them to it, hearing them breathe sighs of relief as she dropped the flap on the hut behind her.

“That is being some temper she is having,” Sen commented to break the silence.

“I know,” Cid smiled; Caleen's passionate nature was one of the things that drew him to her in the first place.

 

The children of the two tribes were playing in the snow close to the huts. Some had practice weapons carved from the bones of monsters slain on hunts, and the sound of them clashing together echoed in short thwacks. Others were talking about being sent on their first scouting tasks soon and what they hoped they might see. Then there were the rest organised into groups by Taran to have a snowball fight. The little boy had a good aim and natural leadership skills, although it took Nyima scowling at her kin to make the rest of them do as he said. She made efforts for the last few days to make him smile and if a snowball fight would do that she would make it the best fight in all their tribes memory.

“You are being the worst at making snowballs,” he panted to Nyima, crouching down next to her as she tried to gather together enough snow to make a ball. “Here, you are being doing it like this.” He easily scooped some up, formed an orb and threw it, hitting a member of the opposing team.

“I'm being trying,” Nyima replied, frowning. “I'm being little, my hands are being smaller!” She grabbed a couple of fistfuls and squished them together to make a small snowball. She threw it and it landed a few feet away.

“You're being too little for this game; go back home,” Taran ordered, pointing at the huts.

Nyima narrowed her eyes at him. “You're being mean!” she yelled, shoving.

Taran lost his balance and fell over. “You're being mean!” he yelled back, getting up and dusting snow from his back.

“Why are you being shouting at our sister?” The other C'Deney children came running over; the eldest boy and girl put themselves in front of Taran, while the remaining gathered around Nyima and made sure she was all right.

“She is being starting it,” Taran grumped, waving off his own kin who were looking to see if he wanted their help.

“Not!” Nyima shot back. “You are being a big meanie and you're not being my friend anymore!” she pushed past the other children and kicked Taran in the shin. “Meanie!” She stomped off and the others followed, the C'Deney tribe sticking together and leaving the Nyx children to comfort their own.

 

“I'm being sorry,” Taran whispered to Nyima later, as the two tribes gathered inside the animal hide tent to eat dinner. One side was drawn out and extended to allow the Nyx to attach it to their own hide tent, making an indoor space that was warm, yet cosy, despite the large size. “I'm should not for to being having saying mean things to you. Please being my friend still.”

Nyima pulled her lower lip between her teeth and sucked on it thoughtfully.

“You'll for to being getting a fat lip doing that,” Taran joked.

She released her lip and scowled at him. “You are always being saying mean things to me. Be nicer.”

“I will, if you are being my friend.”

“Yes,” she agreed, smiling.

 

~*~*~

 

“Brothers, sisters!” Cid called attention and the two peoples' gradually became silent as they focused on him, standing on a raised platform of ice. Beside him was Caleen and on his other side was Sen.

They filled the past twelve days with much laughter and merriment. Dances, feats of strength and matches of wits, hunts and magical talents shown off. All the while men from each tribe came to the shelters of Cid and Sen to make offers for the women that captured their interest. Each arrangement was given careful consideration and thought; both chiefs acting in the best interest of the female first and the entire tribe second. A happy match strengthened the tribe, but an unhappy match weakened it. Neither man went easy on the warriors. They rejected some outright, but those that proved themselves true now stood before the rest of the tribes on the thirteenth day of accession, and spoke words to bind themselves to their chosen mate. After this public display, they would withdraw to one of the shelters. Inkers drew matching designs on the couple's left arms that proclaimed them a bonded pair; they would then travel to the south and the Crux tribe to receive the blessing of the Fayth and the Goddesses, giving the men virility to procreate.

“Let us being for to celebrating the strengthening ties between our two tribes!” Cid said in a strong, clear voice. The six couples turned as a group and the crowd chanted their names and cheered.

“Now we are being singing to those in the eternal frost, that they might being sharing our peoples' joy!” Sen shut his eyes briefly at this, he and Cid clasped each other's wrist, both pleased with this result, as well as with how their own, private arrangement was turning out.

The people looked up to the sky and sang an ancient and sacred song to all v’neketyhns.

 

The past thirteen days, Taran uv Nyx learned that Nyima uv dra C'Deney was stubborn, friendly, kind and forgiving. He was rude and mean to her, she was right, and only realized how much he wanted to be on good terms when she refused to come play with him after their snowball fight. He'd spent a miserable day wandering about the camp ground wondering what to do with himself. He was glad he'd apologized and they were friends again. He'd even told her a story that his mother used to tell him, and started calling Nyima “princess” afterwards because she kept insisting everyone play out the events until all the other children got annoyed with her and buried her in a snow-bank.

He looked over to see her frowning at him, tilting her head to the side, scruffy braids whipping about.

“What are you being looking at?” he'd whispered in a cross voice.

“To see if you're being smiling,” she replied, like it was obvious.

“Why?” Taran frowned.

“Because it's being my gift and if you're not being smiling I'm not being doing it right!” She rolled her eyes.

Taran's lips twitched. “Did my da being telling you that?”

She nodded. “I'm being good at it, and lots of things. Everyone's being telling me!”

“Did someone say you're being good at singing?” he asked, hearing her singing the wrong words to the hymn in an off key voice.

The little girl nodded seriously, still singing loudly, as only a four year old can.

The little boy snorted quietly. “You're being such a princess.”

“Am not!” Nyima broke off to yell at him. “Da, being telling him I'm being good at singing!”

Cid looked at his daughter and raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” she mumbled and glared at Taran, trying not to cry. “You being getting me in trouble!” she hissed.

“Sorry,” he said, feeling a smile touching his lips as he patted her shoulder. “but you are being a princess.”

She pulled a face at him and then beamed as she noticed his expression. “But I'm being telling I'm being good at making people smile!”

 


	5. A look at the other side.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the far side of the jungle, in the burning lands, live the ifrit.

Sweat trickled down his brow and Ashkenaz wiped it away irritably. Mallet in hand, he struck the tip of the blade he was working on, refining the edge to a point. His blue gaze was focused on the half-formed sword as he turned and struck it, using heat and strength to forge it into something deadly. When he was finally satisfied with his work he plunged it into a bucket of water, kept cold with perma-frost taken from the frozen lands on the other side of the jungle. The metal hardened instantly and Ashkenaz removed the blade and examined it with an expert eye. Yes, it would do for the younger ones. Their swords didn't need to be perfect, for the ice people only had flimsy bone in comparison; a few good strikes and whatever they were using would break.

The harshest time of year was passing, soon the men would make for the icy territories to pillage the tribes. Ashkenaz growled softly to himself at the thought of women being among them again; the last one died giving birth months ago, leaving them all bereft. There were no female children born to them. The witch Goddess, Sylmy saw to it that his people were punished at every turn. If they did not take what they wanted they were driven to madness and forced to be put out of their misery. It was no way to live, but in the many generations since they had been cursed, not one of them had discovered a way to break it. Ashkenaz had scoured the books and tomes and ancient writings in the abandoned ruins, but nothing spoke of a way to undo what had been done.

The Hags were also unhelpful, apart from the use of their bodies. Their Sage, Ignis, spoke to each of the ones brought to them, and eventually hit the wall of their knowledge. It seemed all peoples were ignorant, though the Fayth of the ice dwellers made their kind worse off by not sharing the little they knew. It was one of the few times Ashkenaz was grateful for his people's ways. Their knowledge was incomplete, but it was better than being illiterate.

Having finished his work for the day, and feeling the heat beginning to abate as the sun set, he straightened up and eased his aching back; using one clawed hand to rub the opposite shoulder. Being in the forge was like working in hell itself, though his job could have been worse; he could have been stuck watching over the mad ones or the young.

Exiting the forge, Ashkenaz nodded to those he passed as he headed to meet his friend, Rowtag. He was the one who given the task watching the fevered ones that day. The building they were kept in was shunned by all except whoever's turn it was to care for those inside; none of the men needed the reminder of their fate if they could not contain their lust.

Rowtag was exiting as Ashkenaz reached the door. “How did it go?” he said, slapping his friend on the back in greeting.

“Shit,” Rowtag replied, sighing heavily. “Did you know Firion was in there?”

Ashkenaz shook his head; the young man reached maturity just as the last woman died, leaving him none to slake his desires on. It wasn't a surprise to hear that he was driven to madness from the lack.

“I had to end him,” Rowtag added, shaking his head sadly. “This torment, do we deserve it? Why?”

It was a familiar phrase uttered by all of the men at one time or another. None of them had an answer. Because of some ancestor, long dead, whose name wasn't even known, they suffered. The cruel Goddess, Sylmy, never seeming to be satisfied they had been through enough and earned redemption.

“The Goddess is cruel and heartless, you know that.” Ashkenaz put his arm around his friend's shoulders. “Let's get some water. You sound like you need some of the good stuff.” They wandered away from the brick building towards a stone tavern on the far side of the settlement to get a drink.

 

~*~*~

 

Ignis traced a gnarled clawtip over the walls of the ruins he was in. At one time it had been a temple to the four Goddesses of Vaosynlr; the images of the women were everywhere, each bestowing a different gift to the people. He often stared at the wall carvings of the Goddesses walking among them; men and women living together, marrying and having children. It seemed a blessed life. What had they done to ruin it? Was it even them at all? He would rather live in the desert and be warm, than struggle in the icy landscape beyond the jungle. Maybe it was them who were cursed and the men were the ones who were fortunate. Ignis snorted; if that were true then why did all the women die? He had seen families on the other side with his own eyes; the men there seemed to have no issue keeping them alive.

Trailing his finger over the lettering of the curse, the only thing added to the temple after the Fracture, Ignis breathed deeply and tried to temper his rising desire for a woman; thinking of those beyond the jungle had been a bad idea.

“ _Hajan ghuf y fusyh'c lusvund; taydr mejac fedreh oui,”_ he recited. _Never know a woman's comfort; death lives within you._ Ignis couldn't begin to understand why this was their curse. He had spent the best part of ninety years trying to. The Fayth told them Sylmy cursed them because men were monsters. He couldn't argue with it when he compared the pale beauty of the icy people with the hirsute and beast-like deformities of his own kind. However, men lived among the women, so why were they not cursed? The writings in the temples told him neither people existed before the Fracture, and then there was their physical compatibility. They were one kind, perhaps both cursed. If they could only find one who could endure the flames and give birth to a daughter. He was almost certain this was the way to break the curse. If they could find the one who could give them comfort, it would all be different.

 

~*~*~

 

“Vasuman has been named torch. His light will guide the way, his flame will burn brightest and strongest. All others will flock to him as moths!” Ignis's voice carried across the gathered warriors. The clan of twenty-strong, armoured warriors roared and banged their swords against their shields, the metals clanging together dully.

Vasuman, a large, mostly straight-backed man with a full beard and long black hair tied up in a series of knots, took two steps forward at the front of the crowd. Everyone knew him; he was the man who regularly crossed the jungle alone and brought back women for the rest. He was a legend still living and was never unsuccessful.

“We will return laden down with Glory!” he bellowed, raising his sword high and receiving cheers from behind. He flicked his wrist and the men turned as one towards the jungle. “Ursn!” Vasuman roared and the little suukma sped towards him, gem in its forehead glowing brightly.

“Bwarg?”

“Find us Glory!”

The suukma's little nose wrinkled, but it did as Vasuman ordered, flying up high and over all the men towards the jungle, gem leaving a pink trail for them to follow.

“To Glory!” Vasuman yelled, shoving aside the others until they made a path for him to reach the front of the group again. “We'll bring back a half-dozen!”

Following the suukma through the dense jungle, the men knew it was at least one moon's cycle before they would reach the other side. Those that went had the most self-restraint not to fall upon a prize once they had it; their lust was tempered somewhat by the white seeds they ate while travelling, but they were scarce near their home. There were plenty growing near the ice dwellers camp, but the bushes were often bare, leading the Sages to believe the witch Goddess was further tormenting them. They hoarded all that they had and only gave them out in the most dire circumstances, but even then they were only delaying the inevitable, as proven with the boy, Firion.

 

“Hold, men. I go on here alone,” Vasuman said, ignoring the sighs of relief from the others. He pushed them hard, having less supplies of seeds than usual. Even he could feel the rising fire in his blood, the need starting to overwhelm his senses. “Fan out and look for the cohosh,” he ordered, naming the berries his people picked to dull the curse.

He left them then and made for the edge of the jungle, trusting the suukma to guide him to the spot he needed to be. “Well, Hag, what have you for me?” he demanded, stepping out from behind the foliage to greet the elder Fayth.

Frejari's lip curled at the insult. “There are two –”

“Not enough!” Vasuman roared.

“Be quiet!” Frejari hissed. “Do you want to alert them?” She looked over her shoulder, although she couldn't see the escorts she'd brought with her. The two women and one man were hand-picked by her after having heard they were both fighting over the man; it was not their way! “Allow me to finish,” she said in a calmer tone. “There are two with me, along with a man. The rest of the tribe is four days march towards the setting sun. They are small, but have an excess of women.” It was no wonder they had been fighting amongst themselves for the men of another tribe. That one had moved on, but those three made the journey to the Crux to gain the wisdom of the Fayth. It was obvious to Frejari they were on the path to corruption and their sickness needed to be cleansed before it infected both tribes.

Vasuman grinned, showing off pointed teeth. “You are an evil witch,” he said. “Where are your escorts?”

Frejari inclined her head to the left. “Through there. I told them I needed time to myself to commune with the Goddesses.”

He snorted. “Do you even hear them anymore?”

“Sylmy is always with me,” Frejari replied, a glint in her eye. “Sylmy is always with me,” she repeated more quietly, one withered hand going to a pouch tied about her waist and withdrawing a flat, green, disc-shaped herb which she held up triumphantly.

In response, Vasuman pulled a pouch of his own and dropped them at Frejari's feet, allowing identical seeds to spill out. The Fayth gasped and dropped to her knees, scrabbling to pick them up. “Take your payment, Hag, and get out of my sight, before I change my mind about having allowed you to live.”

Frejari gathered up the seeds and eyed him with hatred. “Empty words, Ifrit. Without me you would not have any women.” She got to her feet, bones creaking with age. “I will expect you here again when?”

“I will send Ursn,” Vasuman replied through gritted teeth. He hated being called an Ifrit as much as the Fayth hated being called Hag, but they currently needed one another, so he would endure it for the ease of claiming Glory for his people.

 

~*~*~

 

“They're back!” The cheers reached Ashkenaz inside his forge and he set down his work to go see what the warriors had brought back.

“Two is hardly six,” he commented to Rowtag, as he spied the ragged-looking women being brought along wearing chains. He shook his head and sighed, then turned back to the forge.

“Are you not wanting?” his friend asked, putting a hand on his arm to stop him.

Ashkenaz shook his head again. Long ago he had taken measures so that he wouldn't be like the rest of his kind. The truth was, they made him feel sick. He would rather be unmanned than force himself on an unwilling victim.

Their Sage was first in line, as always, trotting out the well-worn phrase about finding a strong woman to endure the curse and birth a daughter. The two ice-dwellers spat foul words and struggled; the sound of the chains clinking together reaching Ashkenaz's pointed ears. He wouldn't stay and watch his people further their own destruction. If it was the way, as Ignis said, why did it feel so wrong to him? If it was the way why did the women always die? He supposed it wouldn't matter in the end; their numbers grew less every year and soon there would be none of their kind remaining to plague those on the other side of the jungle. “Perhaps that is the way to break the curse,” he muttered to himself, closing the door to the forge and wishing he could shut out the sound of feminine screams so easily. “We should be wiped clean from this world and only then will the Goddesses forgive us.”

 


	6. Celebration and secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last night before the tribes of Vaosynlr depart north is filled with singing and dance. The following day is less joyous and casts a shadow that will stretch for decades.

It was the final evening before the gathering tribes would depart for the north; one last night of celebration and song.

The area swept for dancing and entertainment was made even larger to make room for them all, and there were so many ice drums and string instruments set up that people had to turn sideways to slip past them and reach the centre. The players stripped down; the men going bare chested and the women in bralet tops, anticipating working up a sweat. Bone jewellery rattled softly, it would add a hollow note to the music and make the drum beat all the more furious. Necklaces, bracelets, anklets and belts were admired and fussed with while everyone waited for the Chief of the Crux tribe to arrive so they could begin.

Ela appeared: a tall, broad-shouldered man, flanked by the collection of Fayth, who wouldn't remain beyond opening hymns. Banging his staff three times to call for silence. Swaying side to side, Ela gestured for Frejari to lead.

The voices of the people rose up loud and clear, filled with energy and anticipation. The final notes echoed, acting as escort to the Fayth as they returned to their hut, set back at the furthest point from the merrymaking.

“Tribes!” Ela boomed, banging his staff once more. A man of few words he set things off with the simple command of, “Rejoice!”

Drums struck, players fell into a merging tempo, accompanied by the haunting sound of stringed instruments. Men and women whooped and cheered, stomping their feet and clapping their hands. Small groups came together, dancing around each other and weaving patterns with their bodies, striking decorative bone sticks together. Those with talent made up songs on the spot, repeating the phrases so others could join in.

 

Caleen danced with Cid, spinning around. The bone belt she wore flared, clapping together. Her eyes were bright and cheerful, her smile broad and carefree as she and her husband drank in the simple pleasure of the Gathering. Others of different tribes joined them and the couple moved back to share their dance. Sticks struck, men and women weaved around each other, laughing and singing.

The j'throk were also present, flitting about between the groups, copying steps or singing snatches of songs. Others sat at the feet of the musicians watching them play and clapping along to the beat, only moving out of the way when a player needed to swap with someone. The music was continuous and came to a gradual end as tribes set off.

By the time the sun rose the following morning the Crux camp was empty, save for their own.

 

Ela yawned and scratched his stubbled chin as he gave casual orders to tidy the area. It was a simple matter of breaking down ice and waiting for the snow to cover up the arena space, but Frejari and her Fayth could be heard loudly muttering about how rude it was of the other tribes to expect the Crux to do this.

“Don't being seeing you doing your share,” Ela said in a lazy tone, smiling at the elderly woman. She was Fayth when he took over from the previous leader, having challenged her for the position and won, but somehow all his dreams and plans for the tribe ended up dissolving into nothing. Some days it was all he could do to check his people were all right; everything ended up left in the hands of Frejari and the Fayth.

“The Fayth are being always working,” she replied, sniffing. “I could not being saying the same for you.”

“I'm Chief,” Ela snapped, blinking to wake himself up. “I'm being taking my duties seriously.”

A Fayth apprentice needed Frejari's attention, and she left Ela without further argument.

He watched for a little while longer, then headed to his hut. His plan was to think about the coming season and which of his people needed pushing to better roles; which warriors the Fayth would want for their herb gathering trips and other mysteries, but as he settled back into his furs he found his eyes closing. He breathed the smoky scent of the peat, tinged with an aromatic undertone, and in minutes he was asleep.

 

~*~*~

 

Frejari entered the Fayth hut, which was the largest of the Crux, and ordered the apprentice out. “What is the matter, Lumia?” she addressed the woman who summoned her.

“I'm being having a vision,” she replied, her voice soft and kindly. “Aukoo is being speaking to me.”

Frejari didn't put much faith in the mutterings of Aukoo. She was the Goddess most eager for change; a dangerous concept for the people. “What is she saying?”

Lumia's eyes opened and they settled on Frejari with a frigid rage. “You has being sacrificing women to the ifrit!”

Frejari clutched her breast, both offended and shocked at the accusation. “I'm being doing the will of the Goddess! I would never––”

“Aukoo sees everything!” Lumia rose to her feet, dark hair clouding about her face. “She is being the light of this world and you cannot being for to hiding from her! She _saw_ you! Many times she has being seeing you taking women into the jungle as escort and being returning without them! Your list of excuses is long, Frejari!” She recited several recognised as having come from her lips. “Why?” Lumia pleaded, sapphire eyes filling with tears. “Do the people not suffer enough? You're not being allowing us to teaching them to read, or passing on the wisdom of the Goddesses––”

“You wouldn't being for to understanding,” Frejari replied in a cold voice. “I am being doing the work of Sylmy.”

Lumia's eyes widened and tears spilled onto her cheeks. “Sylmy? No Fayth is being hearing her voice in generations.” _Could it be true? Was Frejari blessed by the reclusive Goddess?_

Frejari delved into a pocket and produced a pouch of flat, round seeds. “These are being enhancing the gifts of the Fayth,” she said, holding one out for Lumia to see. “They are being allowing us to being reaching even the Hidden One and hearing her will. The other Goddesses are being seeking our favor, but Sylmy is the true voice, for we must for to searching for her; it is her will that we must do.”

Lumia eyed the seed; she gathered many different kinds in her years as Fayth, but didn't recognise this one. “Where did you get it?”

“Sylmy is being coming to me when I'm being first eating, after the ifrit has being taking me. I'm being hearing her words and knowing that she is for to being choosing me to doing her will.”

Lumia knew what happened to Frejari at the hands of the ifrit, and how she managed to escape, but she had no idea Sylmy spoke to her in the burning lands. “You for to are finding seeds on the other side?”

“They are being only growing there,” Frejari confided. “Sylmy is being willing to speak to them; why else for to is the way being there?”

Lumia frowned at the heavy pouch tied to Frejari's waist. “Where are you being getting more?”

Frejari stepped forward and pressed the seed into Lumia's hand. “I'm for to being in needing of another to helping me do Sylmy's will. Won't you being helping me, sister?”

It was always Lumia's secret wish to hear Sylmy, but not at the cost of the people. Frejari was sending women to the ifrit, and being given seeds in return so that she could hear the Goddess. The very thought felt foul to her. She opened her mouth to accuse the elder Fayth of corruption and found a seed being shoved into her mouth and her jaws pushed closed again.

“Once you're being hearing the voice of Sylmy you will for to being understanding,” Frejari grunted, holding onto Lumia until she felt her choke down the seed.

 

~*~*~

 

“Da, I'm has being bored.” Six year old Nyima fidgeted in the saddle. She rose with her father, though the pair were stationary at the side of the road, watching the rest of the tribe pass. Once the last C'Deney was in front of them, Cid would nudge his bird-mount forward to overtake, having confirmed with his own eyes all his people were with them. They would do this task several times before they stopped to make camp.

“After last night, I'm for to expecting you to be,” he chuckled. “Your place is for to being in the wagon with the other young ones.” He put his hand on Nyima's shoulder to still her squirming. She was still too young to ride for hours at a time with no complaint, but she'd learn.

“I'm being sorry, da,” Nyima said in a quiet voice. “I'm being can going with them.” She knew how important her father's role was in the tribe, but she really loved spending time with him.

Cid sighed, brow furrowing. “Why don't I'm being teaching you the hunting game?” That would surely take her mind off how uncomfortable she was until he could catch up to the wagon where the other j'throk were.

“Yes, please!” She clapped her hands and tried to turn around to give her father a hug.

“Easy, little one. You'll fall.” Cid steadied her, even as he organized his thoughts to how they played the game. “Picturing a flat board with six sided tiles, five by five large,” he began, thinking this would be both challenging enough to play and simple enough to visualise. “Your weakest pieces always sit to the left. In your corner are three hunters: a scout, who may move two paces in any direction; the second, a spear-man, who may move once forward and once to flank; the third is the Chief and he may move wherever he wishes, one pace at a time.” He paused and peered over the little girl's shoulder to see her brow furrowed in concentration.

“I'm being having it,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Your hunters are for to finding an ice bug, who will hover one pace forwards and one to the side, a horned beast, who will charge three paces, and a woolly gator, who will move one pace in any direction.”

Nyima nodded. She was still as a statue, oblivious to everything.

“To succeed you must corral the bug and beast on two sides and the gator on three.” If the conditions for victory were tough, Nyima didn't say. “If I'm being catching your Chief, you lose. The hunters move first.”

Nyima's nose wrinkled as she screwed up her face. “Mine scout is being moving two forward.”

Cid easily pictured the board he had described and the move as well. “Are you being sure?” he smiled.

“Umm, no?” She redrew the board in her mind and made a noise as she spotted her mistake. “The beast will being getting me! I'm being moving my scout up two!”

With a nod of approval, Cid responded. “My beast is being taking the place of your scout and stares angrily at your Chief.”

“I'm being wanting to move my scout back,” Nyima started, “but I can't being making him move two paces.”

“That is the difficulty of the game, mine little suukma.”

 

They continued on in this way for some time. Nyima eventually managed to maneuver her scout and spearman into position to take the beast off the board, but she left her chief exposed and neglected to pay attention to where Cid was placing his ice bug.

“Your Chief has being dying on the hunt,” he said at last, pulling a sad face. “The other hunters cannot continue.”

Nyima made a noise of frustration. “I'm being wanting to playing again!”

Cid's laugh was loud and full-bodied, and drew curious glances from the last of his tribesmen as they passed. “Perhaps later. We are having to getting to the head of the convoy. Hold on.” He urged the mount forward with his knees and the bird broke out into a loping trot, easily passing everyone. Scraps of conversation reached his ears, as well as the odd shout of pairs calling moves in the more complicated version of the game he was teaching Nyima.

“Can I'm being learning that one?”

He half chuckled, half groaned. “If you can being beating me in our other game, yes.”

“I will!” she promised, nodding firmly. “I'm for to being going to beat you so bad you'll being having to sit in the snow to numb the pain of losing to me!”

The wind carried Cid's laughter to the ears of his people as he and his daughter rode past.

 

 


	7. Genoh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At eight years old, Nyima learns her world is full of more terrors and darkness than the creatures her father speaks of in bedtime stories.

The tribe made good time and set up camp; the ice weavers help build the huts. A group of scouts returned with news that a herd of armabullo were nearby, having wandered way from the marshlands and gotten lost in the snow.

There was a buzz of excitement as the warriors gathered near the Chief to hear who he would pick to take on the squat, armoured beasts. It took a keen eye to strike the spot between the spiked plates on the creature’s backs and wound the flesh beneath.

“Brael is for to being taking responsibility for this hunt,” Cid said in a decisive voice. He nodded at the senior warrior who was getting on in years, but still an excellent leader. He would direct the younger warriors’ strength and the tribe would eat well tonight because of it. Though difficult, armabullo were one of the least dangerous beasts the tribe hunted, and perfect as a proving ground for those rising above the level of scout.

“I’ll for to being knocking some soft edges off them for you, Chief,” Brael laughed, causing more than a few young warriors to grimace at what was coming. Two ice weavers, an axe and two spear made up the rest of the party. Others waved off the mixed gender group as they followed the tracker. The younger woman would position herself away from the danger and wait to lead them back to the tribe.

 

 

The day passed pleasantly enough; men and women completed chores, and the sound of j’throk could be heard as they practised fighting with flimsy hollow-bone swords and other weapons.

“Ow!” Nyima dropped the sword she had in her hand and cradled her fingers.

“You will for to being getting hurt hunting,” Qui replied, shrugging. “You are being needing to not feeling the pain because if you are dropping your weapon you are being dying.”

Nyima’s face twisted with an expression far too mature for her eight years of life. “I’m being knowing that.” She flexed her fingers slowly and crouched down to plunge them into the snow.

“That’s for to how you are being stopping it hurting,” Qui said, proud. “You are being having to use what is around you to your advantage; don’t being ever forgetting that.”

“I’m not,” Nyima replied, removing her numb hand from the snow and looking at it. Her pale skin was already darkening with a bruise, but otherwise she was fine. “I can still being using my other hand,” she said, picking up the sword in her left and smiling.

“You are for to being going to be very good for the tribe when you are older,” Qui predicted, taking up a stance with her own bone-blade.

Before either girl could move there came a shout.

“Who is that?” Qui squinted, her vision not being good enough to see long distances.

“It’s being the tracker who went with the hunters,” Nyima replied, waving. She soon stopped when she realised something was wrong. “Qui, go find _vydran,”_ she said, sticking her sword into her waistband and taking off at a run towards the tracker.

Qui had no choice but to do as Nyima said and hurried off to locate the Chief.

Nyima reached the tracker just as he collapsed to his knees, blue blood seeping into the snow.

“What happened?” she gasped. Something had ripped the whole of his back to pieces; the furs he wore hanging in shreds across his chest and shoulders.

 _“Genoh,”_ he gasped, wincing in pain. “They’re all being dead.”

Nyima’s hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened; genoh were found near grave sites where the ice weavers hadn’t done a proper job entombing the dead. The half-rotted, frozen corpses grew angry and came back to life to take the skin from those who were alive and whole.

The tracker slumped face down in the snow.

“Stay awake!” she yelled at him, going to her knees and shaking his shoulder. “You can’t for to being dying!”

Warriors arrived with the Chief and lifted the man between them, carrying him to a hut where Temia was waiting with their meagre supply of curatives. She didn’t know the secrets of the Fayth yet, but she was all they had, and was successful in the past in saving injured people.

“Da,” Nyima whispered, following behind her father and the men. “He is being saying a _genoh_ did it.”

Cid paused briefly, then carried on. “We must being waiting before we’re being collecting the others then.”

“Wait?” This surprised her. “But they might for to being still being alive!”

The group carrying the injured tracker glanced back for a moment and the little girl blushed at the pitying looks they gave her. She had heard enough late-night, scary stories from her father she knew what a genoh could do and that the other hunters were most likely dead, but they still shouldn’t give up hope of finding someone alive.

Looking over her shoulder, Nyima saw the trail of blood left by the tracker; she could follow it back to where the other warriors were. She slipped away before anyone could notice or ask her what she thought she might do once she reached the warriors. She so badly wanted to help them and that was the only thought in her mind as she ran.

Fortunately for her there was no further snowfall, so the trail didn’t end up being covered. It didn’t take long for the girl to find where the genoh attacked the tracker; a mess of fur, blood and skin fragments marked the spot. She looked around, knowing he wouldn’t have placed himself too far from the hunters, so he could see when it was time to lead them back to the tribe.

“Oh,” she breathed, having found them only because of the armabullo carcass nearby. “Blessings on you all,” she said, swallowing back the lump in her throat. There was nothing left but blood and gore; not a single person was intact. The little girl squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to retch as the smell reached her nose. The genoh left the armabullo, it not being human in appearance, so the warriors last hunt would benefit the tribe still. It was a cruel fate for them, however, and there would be no way of performing adequate burial rites either. Nyima only hoped their spirits could find peace and not seek other poorly entombed v’neketyhns to turn into genoh.

Nyima’s eyes flew open; _the genoh!_ She looked around, but trying to spot a white-skinned monster among all the other layers of white was impossible! A chill went down her spine and she pulled up the collar of her furred coat and turned, sucking in a breath when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Heart pounding in her ears she broke into a run and heard an inhuman screech behind her.

The monster was gaining on her, she could sense it, but the camp was growing closer with every step. Her legs were aching from having run for so long and she stumbled and cried out, “Ma!”

As the genoh came within feet of Nyima, she drew her practice sword and threw it at it. “Getting back,” she threatened, scrambling to her feet and taking off again. The monster still followed, its pace neither fast nor slow, but relentless. Nyima knew she should have listened to her father and stayed put; she’d brought the thing home with her!

“Ma!” Nyima yelled as she neared the village and spotted Caleen training with some other warriors. _“Genoh!”_

The warriors rushed to intercept the little girl, swinging her round and tossing her towards a snow bank as they drew weapons on the approaching creature.

“Behind me!” Caleen ordered her people, breathing deeply and gesturing with her hands. A barricade of ice spikes shot up from beneath the snow and stretched along the edge of the camp. Those behind her tossed spears of both bone and ice, several striking the shambling thing, but they did not do enough damage to stop it.

“Spike it,” the man beside Caleen cried.

Raising her arm up, Caleen drew together a large formation of ice into a thick spike, as large as she was tall. It fell into the arms of the warriors waiting for it and they charged forward, using it as a battering ram to shatter the barricade and impale the genoh. They drove the spike down into the snow and quickly decapitated the flailing beast.

“Nyima!” Caleen turned to look for her daughter the moment the danger passed and found her clambering out of the snow and shaking flakes from her hair and clothes. “What are you being doing?” she demanded to know.

“I’m being sorry, ma. I’m being thinking they might still for to being alive.” Nyima’s bottom lip wobbled, but she didn’t cry.

Caleen’s face softened slightly. “Now you for to being knowing better,” she said.

 

 

As the sun peeked over the horizon, turning the bleak landscape into a canvas of glittering crystals, the C’Deney tribe just set off, having spent the last three days preparing the funeral rites for the hunters and tracker killed by the genoh.

As Chief, it was Cid’s honor to lead the ceremony, speaking briefly of those who gave their lives and that those left behind would always remember their names. The ice weavers spent the time meditating and preparing themselves to properly entomb the poor tracker, the only one to return whole, but who still succumbed to his wounds.

It was with solemn and leaden treads the tribe left the newly erected grave site and headed for their next camp ground; Cid’s mind was already on how he would explain what happened to the Fayth when their tribe eventually found their way to the Crux. Frejari was always keen to know exactly what happened to any of the tribe who died though she often seemed disappointed at the end of the telling.

 

 

Sylmy found herself stuck with Nyima; the little girl having run off days before and encountered a genoh meant that her mother was being extra vigilant with her safety. The fourteen-year-old scout wouldn’t mind so much if Nyima would just stop talking! She asked questions about everything she saw even if she knew the answers.

“Why do we for to being needing scouts? What is the best part of being a scout? When do they let you train with weapons? When will they let _me_ train with weapons? How do you know when to look out for things? Who else scouts with you when you go? Will you go on hunts too? What –”

“Nyima, _ahuikr!”_ the other girl snapped. “You are being hurting my ears.”

“Sorry,” came the muttered reply. “I’m being wanting to train properly, not with the baby weapons.” She knocked her knuckles against the hollow-bone sword attached to her waist.

“Don’t being dismissing it; I’m being hearing it has being saving your life,” Sylmy replied. “You’ll being getting your chance when you’re being older. You’re being needing for to being more patient, like the glacier.” She pointed to the slow moving sheet of ice half-way up a mountain in the distance. “It’s being wanting for to being where it’s being ending, but can only being going so fast.”

Nyima frowned seriously and nodded. “I know.” She opened her mouth to say more, but Sylmy put her fingers over her lips.

“That is enough. You are being needing to learning when to stop talking, too.”

Nyima narrowed her blue eyes at her sister and licked the hand covering her mouth.

Sylmy yanked her hand away and bared her teeth. _“Oilg!”_

The two girls walked in silence for about a mile when Sylmy nudged the person next to her and said she needed to make a stop. The adult nodded and said, “Don’t being wandering too far from the path,” and then went back to the match he’d been in the middle of.

“Can I being going, too?” Nyima piped up. The adult waved his hand, already trying to think of his next move, and Sylmy was already trotting off. She took this as a sign she could go with, so hurried after her. Nyima didn’t need to relieve herself, but she wanted to have a look at something besides the path and other people’s boot prints in the slush.

“For to being going standing guard for me!” Sylmy hissed when she saw Nyima chasing after her. “I’m can’t being watching my back and pee.”

Happy with something to do, Nyima did as her sister said and skipped to a spot behind the scout and crouched down to draw in the snow with her finger. She pressed down, giggling softly as the powder crunched under her digit. She repeated the action several times, then tried to join the dots to make a picture, shuffling sideways so she wouldn’t have to keep getting up and squatting down again. It was only as she heard Sylmy yelling for her that Nyima realised she shuffled her way around an outcropping of rocks and became hidden from the rest of the tribe along the path.

A short burst of panic forced her to jackknife to standing, and she turned to run back to her people, only to catch her toe on something buried under the snow and trip. Nyima landed heavily on her knees and bit her lip from the pain. There was a further series of small crunching noises underneath her knees as she went to get back up and the snow compacted. With her next footstep Nyima suddenly dropped, her foot going too deep and finding nothing underneath to support it. Eyes like saucers, she screamed, sticking out her arms and legs to slow her fall as she plummeted, feeling them scrape against rough walls. She was sure her heart was trying to vomit out of her mouth, so high in her throat it was almost choking her. It wasn’t a long drop, but it felt that way to the girl as she hit the ground and collapsed in a heap. Her whole body was shaking with relief and terror at the feeling of not knowing what was below or around her. It was dark and the only light came from directly above, illuminating the first three feet of the walls and showing they were stone and crafted in a pattern so they sat on top of each other. The hole she fell into was perfectly circular and she could feel ice beneath her hands; frozen water. She was lucky not to have gone through it. Nyima could swim since the age of three, learning while in the south, but swimming in icy water, fully clothed, was not something she was confident about doing.

“Da!” Nyima screamed for her father, not understanding what she’d fallen into, but knowing she wanted to get back out. Her tribe were leaving! They might go without her and she’d stay stuck in this funny hole until she shrivelled up and died. “Ma!” She tried so hard not to cry; she wouldn’t be able to call for help if she was sobbing like a baby. “Da! Ma! Sylmy! _Ramb sa!”_ She shouted the same sentence over and over, getting more upset each time she got no answer, until finally, what felt like an eternity later, though was only a few minutes at most, a shadowy head appeared at the entrance to the hole. “I’m being wanting my ma!” Nyima shrieked at Sylmy, who looked over her shoulder and yelled for help.

It felt like it took forever for them to pull Nyima up from the hole and handed into her mother’s open arms. She was trembling all over, her lips down-turned and eyes filling with tears as she flung her arms around Caleen and clung onto her for dear life, carrying her back to the convoy. First she’d got in trouble with the genoh and now by falling down a hole; Nyima felt like she was the unluckiest person in v’neketyh as they set her up in front of Cid on his mount to make sure she stayed out of trouble.

“For to being going and bringing me one of those stones from that hole,” Cid said over Nyima’s head to a couple of warriors. This wasn’t the first time one of his people had stumbled on something strange and foreign while out in the wilderness. He would examine them and bring it up at the Chiefs meeting when the C’Deney returned south for the winter. He would explain to the Fayth that their people needed better ways to mark out paths; not even the finest tracker could see a hole beneath a layer of snow. It was lucky it wasn’t deep, and that Nyima had gone with Sylmy. If she’d been alone like last time, they might not have noticed her until they reached their next camp.


	8. Blood in the snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After nine years of trying, Nyima's mother is about to give birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains descriptions of late term pregnancy miscarriage.

Nyima tiptoed towards her target, a ball of snow in her hands and a big smile on her face. Just as she was about to mash it into her aunt's hair, Temia said, “I wouldn't being doing that if I were you.”

“How are you being knowing?” Nyima dropped the snowball and went to sit beside her aunt on the oiled cloth and watch the sunrise.

“Your footsteps are being too even.”

Nine-year old Nyima frowned. “I'm being watching where I'm going.”

“It's showing,” Temia replied, tucking something into her sleeve. “For to being planning your path, but don't being letting anyone else seeing you have.”

Nyima drew her lower lip into her mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully. “How do I being doing that?” she said at last.

“Practice,” Temia laughed, hugging Nyima to her. “Now, you for to being quiet. Aukoo is bringing down the stars.” She pointed to where the sun was coming up and the light touched the snowy landscape, making the frost glitter. “Adnu will for to gathering their fading light, along with the souls of those lost, and placing them back up into the night.”

Nyima hummed thoughtfully. “If the ancestors are being the stars, why does Aukoo bring them back?”

“So that we may always being feeling their light and knowing they are being part of our world,” Temia smiled. “Don't ever forget, Nyima, the body may die, but the soul is being eternal.”

“I'm won't,” she replied, shaking her head. “Will ma being for to going to the Fayth soon?” she said, changing the subject. After many years of wanting, Caleen was finally with child again. Nyima was excited to meet the new baby, but she was worried about her mother as well; there were many concerns throughout the pregnancy, with scattered bleeding and pain. Caleen's years as a warrior and many injuries were also not helping. There were points where the expectant parents thought they lost the babe, but Temia had reassured them it was still alive and growing strong.

“She is still having time yet, but with the pace she is travelling it may for to being better if they're going now,” Temia answered. Her brow furrowed. “I'm being fearing she is not being strong enough for this.”

Nyima scowled. “My ma is being the strongest warrior in the whole tribe!”

“Shh,” Temia put her finger to her lips. “She is being strong, but birthing takes a depth of strength that is too much for many a warrior.”

Nyima swallowed. “Will she for to being dying?”

“I'm will being going with her and I'm being promising you,” she hugged Nyima tightly, “that your mother will for to being safe. She is not yet being for the Eternal Frost.”

Nyima wiped her damp eyes and nodded firmly. “What do you think the Fayth will for to being calling the baby?”

There was a snort from behind them and they both turned to see Caleen standing there, one hand on her back easing the ache. “They will _not_ for to being naming _my_ babe,” she said.

“Ma!” Nyima jumped up and gave her mother a careful hug, rubbing her belly and saying, “Good morning, little one,” to the baby within.

Caleen shared smiling looks with Temia. “Come along, both of you. Your hands are being needed to share the workload.”

 

~*~*~

 

The tribe hadn't got halfway to where they wanted to set up camp. It couldn't be avoided. Caleen stopped to relieve herself, then screamed with panic at the blood dripping down her thighs. The ice weavers erected a hut and set everything up, as Cid and Temia ordered everyone about in harsh, panicked voices.

The canvas tent was prepared for the rest of the people to take shelter in and there was a heavy silence. Even the j'throk were quiet as they huddled together with their minders. Though the babe was Cid and Caleen's, it was a joyous and anticipated event for everyone, and the thought of something being wrong drew worried frowns across many brows.

 

Inside the hut, peat was lit and the weak plume of smoke wafted up out of the hole in the roof. The room was warm, the bed set up with furs, and water was waiting to wash mother and babe. Caleen, however, was on her knees, too weak to stand.

“You being needing for to being up,” Temia said, forcing her voice to sound calm. “The babe will for to being coming easier and you are struggling less.”

“I can't,” Caleen sobbed, angry at herself. It felt like her insides were trying to fall out; the pressure was so great, far more than when she'd been in labour with Nyima.

Both Cid and Temia took her by the arm and hauled her up. “We're being needing others,” he said to Temia, his voice trembling from the effort of hiding his fear.

“No,” Caleen gasped as pain squeezed her belly tightly. “I won't for to letting them see me being like this!”

“Someone is for to needing to be ready to catch the babe, Caleen,” Temia explained patiently. “Let us being calling another for its sake.”

Grunting through the pain, she jerked a nod.

As Temia opened her mouth to call for someone, there was a sudden shifting from the other woman.

“Oh, Goddess,” Caleen groaned, feeling like her insides were being turned out. “It's coming now!”

Temia let go of her and dropped to her knees just in time to catch the bloody mess that slipped from her sister. The baby was slick and she almost lost her hold on it, clutching it close as more blood and mess followed. “Caleen, that is not being right!” Temia's eyes were wide at the splatter on the floor, and the fluids that still flowed down her pale limbs. She glanced at the baby, but it was silent. “Cid! Getting Caleen to the bed. She for to being must lie down. I'm being seeing to the babe.”

Cid's eyes were wide with horror; this was nothing like his wife's last birthing, but he mustered his nerve and did as his sister said.

Temia laid the baby down on some blankets and began wiping the blood off. She cleared his mouth with her fingers and gently pressed his chest to try and encourage him to breathe. She rubbed him to warm his cold skin, but with every passing moment she knew time was running out to save Caleen. She had to choose: try to revive the child or keep the mother alive?

“Cid! I'm being needing you!” Temia, gave quick directions to her brother and then grabbed the tools she needed to work on Caleen. She had no idea what she was doing, other than having done similar to their bird-mounts when they ruptured laying eggs. A person was very different, but Caleen's screams cut out when she passed out from the pain. Temia was covered in blood and had to keep stopping to wipe her hands. Worse, her eyes kept filling with tears as she worked. “Please, don't for to being dying,” she kept whispering. She refused to look over her shoulder to her brother and see how the baby fared, but the silence in the hut screamed the truth at them.

 

~*~*~

 

“My j'throk, come here,” Caleen said, opening her arms out to Nyima, who had come to see her. She had been carried back inside their hut after the ceremony to entomb the baby, and laid on her bed of furs to rest. The pain in her chest was trying to kill her, and she wanted to join her babe, who they named Caid. Only the thought of Nyima being left motherless kept her focused and able to hand the bundle over to Cid, so that a weaver could cover him with ice and preserve him forever. It was a short ceremony, made all the more poignant when Nyima placed her stuffed suukma beside the little boy, “So he won't for to being lonely,” she said.

Nyima ran to her mother's side and settled into her arms. “I'm being sorry you being hurting, ma,” she said, hugging her gently, mindful of the thick stitches holding the woman together.

“I am alive,” Caleen replied, her voice sad. “That is being a blessing.” She sighed heavily. “I am still being strong.”

“Not being strong enough for that,” Temia said, hearing the unspoken thought and she came into the room to check on Caleen. “You cannot.”

Caleen scowled and gestured for Nyima to leave. “I would not being thinking of it now, but in time –”

“No, Caleen, you _cannot,”_ Temia repeated, putting emphasis on the last word. “I...was having to being taking it. I'm being sorry!” She rushed to the bedside and took Caleen's cold hands. “You for to would being having died! I'm being promising! I'm being promising Nyima you would for to living!”

Caleen felt cold. More so than she ever had in her life. “You was having taking it?” she said slowly, not daring to believe her ears. “That is not being possible. How?”

Temia winced and shut her eyes. “I was having should have being telling you both,” she said, opening her eyes again when she felt Caleen snatch her hands away. “Please, I'm being thinking it is for the best that you not being knowing. You would for to being become so angry.”

“What would I for to being becoming angry at, Temia?” Caleen's voice was frigid.

“The Fayth. At the last gathering I was having speaking with one of the apprentices and telling him of mine intending to join them. He said I was for to having best learn to read then.”

“Read?” Caleen sounded the word out. “What is that?”

“The symbols,” she said, gesturing to Caleen's left arm, where a pattern of markings ran down the outside from shoulder to wrist. It was the symbol of her marriage to Cid, who had a matching one on his left arm. They were tattooed by the Fayth after the blessing of the marriage rites, but before the sacred potion was drunk to make the men strong and virile. “They are being names. Our people's names.” She touched the two in the centre, the largest. “These are being your parents' names.” Her face crumpled then. “The Fayth are being keeping this from us. They are for to having knowledge in their hut. They are being calling them 'books' and within them is so much of who we was having for to being as a people.” Temia sat back and withdrew from her coat a small, bone cylinder. She opened and unrolled it to show Caleen a drawing of an animal's body being sliced open along its side. The next drawing showed its young being pulled out. “I'm being taking this from them and adapting it to helping me with the mounts. Are you for to being remembering?”

Caleen nodded. She never saw anyone do what her sister did to help their herd when they struggled with passing eggs. The animals were torn and Temia repaired them, saving several of the same line. The mounts that hatched from the eggs were especially hardy and strong.

Temia unrolled the scroll further and stopped at an image that turned Caleen's stomach.

“You was being using this to take Sylmy's gift from me?” she said at last.

“Something was being wrong inside,” Temia explained in a tearful voice. “It came out with the babe. You would for to having being dying with him if I had not. Would you being leaving Nyima without her mother?”

Caleen lay back against the furs and shut her eyes. “No,” she said at last. She looked at Temia. “How long have you being knowing about the Fayth?”

Temia looked scared. “I'm being sorry,” she said again. “I didn't being knowing what to do. I should for to having told you and Cid, but the apprentice who was for to having telling me about the knowledge was having being dissppearing while collecting herbs. There are being whispers that it is happening more often. Escorts and Fayth being going into the jungle and not returning. Frejari's inner circle mutters about Sylmy more and more; the other Goddesses are never being speaking to them.”

“They are festering,” Cid said, catching this as he came into the room. “Nyima is being saying you are angry with Temia. She is being worrying about you,” he directed at his wife, sitting beside her and cupping her cheek with one hand. “Are you being well?”

“I am alive,” Caleen sighed, “but I am being far from well.”

“Your strength will for to being recovering,” Temia offered. “The rest...” she shrugged.

“I am still being having more to offer mine tribe,” the Chief's wife said in a firm voice. “The pain will fade in time.” She sounded so sure of the lie she almost convinced herself. “The Fayth are poison,” she said to Cid. “They are being having skills to help us and do not use them.” Her thoughts lingered on the babe for a moment, then turned to the child who was alive and needed her; she would keep her safe at any cost. “We cannot for to being letting them continue. If we are for to being making a show of force then we need the Nyx.”

Cid was unhappy his wife was finally behind his plan; the cost was almost more than his heart could bear. “We will for to being staying here until you are for to being recovering enough,” he said, placing his hand over hers when she made to argue. “We will for to being finding another ground to weather out the winter if it's being coming to that. The next time the C'Deney are being meeting with the Crux it will for to being to taking the tribes.”

 

~*~*~

 

“The C'Deney are not being here?” Frejari couldn't hide the glee in her voice as she was given the names of the tribes present at the yearly gathering. “They are being a large tribe; this is for to being a blow to our people,” she continued, in a faux concerned way.

“No other tribe has being seeing them for a long time. The word for to being from last to having being seeing them was the Chief and his wife would for to being coming here so she could being birthing her babe.” The apprentice twisted the cloth of her tunic between her fingers, worried. “What was having being happening to them?”

“Sylmy for to being blessing them?” Lumia blinked her clouded eyes and peered over at the pair. She and several other devout Fayth were lounging on furs about the room, lost in dreams where they spoke to the green-skinned Goddess. “You said they were having being cast out by her,” she said to Frejari in a thick voice.

“They are!” She snapped back. There was no possible way Cid's woman was with child; Sylmy would never allow such a thing to come to pass! “They are not being welcome by the Goddess. They are not being welcome here, either. It is all to the good that they was not having being coming. They would for to being putting to death.”

The apprentice tried to keep her face neutral; these past three years she had seen the Fayth fall to ruin. Frejari did something to corrupt them, but only those who saw inside the hut knew this; if they spoke of it they disappeared. To the rest of the tribes they were as they always had been; spiritual leaders of the people.

“Where is the Chief of this tribe?” Frejari wanted to hear everything about the C'Deney. She could hope that Cid and his wife fell on the way to the Crux, but that didn't explain where the rest of the tribe were; whenever they were leaderless, tribes returned to them to oversee the trials between potential leaders to replace the fallen.

“I will for to being bringing him here,” the apprentice said, turning to leave.

“No!” Frejari snatched the woman's arm. “You will for to being telling him I will for to being coming to his hut, as an honor to his high position.” The Fayth sniggered to herself as the other woman left; she respected no Chief; Sylmy's voice was the one she obeyed. If it turned out the C'Deney tribe were truly lost in the snow it was all the better for her; no more Cid to question her authority and hatch schemes.

 

Frejari sipped her tea as the tribe Chief recalled the last time he'd seen the C'Deney tribe. He mentioned one of his tribe's women stayed with them, having found a man among them who she wanted to marry. This was not welcome news for Frejari, who had been tracking the C'Deney tribe's links with others. To her count they had connections with no less than a dozen, with the greatest being that of the Nyx. Those two tribes were so intermingled they were almost one. This had not been overlooked by her, either, and she was intending on dealing with the weaker tribe once they arrived. Sen had a habit of bringing his people to the gathering as late as possible and leaving as soon as they could; an obvious ploy to avoid being around the Fayth for too long and raise suspicion. How unlucky for him that Frejari was already suspicious.

 _How to deal with the C'Deney?_ Frejari mused, nodding along to the Chief as he chatted about wanting his son to marry the daughter of another tribe. She could not use the ifrit again, not against that many people. There would be no way to administer poison if the C'Deney wouldn't come to the Crux. There was one other way, however, but not without its own risks. “What did you being saying?” she said, registering his words at last.

“My son,” the Chief said. “I'm being knowing he is young, but the C'Deney have an arrangement in place with the Nyx for their j'throk and it is for to being seeming a sensible approach. If they are being marrying young there is a greater chance of stronger babes for to being born. And,” he added in a proud voice, “I was having being Chief of my tribe for many years, with none ever questioning mine leadership. My son is being learning from me and would for to being taking over without challenge. If he is for to being having a wife when he does the tribes could become one.”

Frejari was furious, but hid it well. “The C'Deney and the Nyx are for to being wedding their children to each other?”

“Yes,” the Chief said, chuckling. “Why have we never being thinking of it before? Our tribes are safer with more numbers.”

“Less tribes means less matches for to being made,” Frejari replied, taking the tone of wise advisor. “The C'Deney and the Nyx would for to being denying their people each other by becoming one, for our people cannot being marrying within their own tribe.”

The Chief grimaced. “Yes, I'm didn't being thinking of that.” He stood when Frejari did and escorted her to the flap acting as a door, holding it up for her. “Surely,” he said, hesitantly, “if those of the same blood are for to being knowing their own then there is no danger in blending?”

“If the Goddesses wanted our people for to being living this way then it would being this way; we must all being living under the rule of the Goddesses.” Frejari stalked back in the direction of her hut, muttering to herself about the C'Deney poison working its way through the people. She had learned Cid's plan; to merge with the Nyx and corrupt their people, but she would not allow it to happen. If the C'Deney still lived, they needed not to. She would decide what to do with the Nyx after meditating and seeking advice from Sylmy.

 


	9. Attack in Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another year passes. Frejari's reach is long and the C'Deney tribe is in her sights.

“Sen.”

The way Frejari said his name made his shoulders rise up to the level of his ears; he was hoping to avoid the Fayth for as long as possible, or at least have someone else with him when he ran into her. He didn't know what it was about the woman, but she put ice in his veins. “Can I being helping you?” he said, turning around and meeting her gaze as calmly as he was able.

“Where is your friend, Cid, being?” Frejari didn't bother with pleasantries.

“Cid? Uv dra C'Deney?” Sen shrugged. “I haven't being seing him for some time.” Cid had informed him that Caleen was with child again and Sen found he couldn't look at his friend. It reminded him too much of Inoa and so he'd avoided the common paths the tribe usually took to run into the C'Deney. “Are the tribe not being here?” He'd noticed they were absent, but assumed they were arriving late, as his tribe did.

“They are being not here.” Frejari gestured for him to walk beside her, and he did so reluctantly. “I have being hearing worrying things about the C'Deney and the Nyx.”

Sen's face remained neutral. “What could for to being worring a Fayth?”

“That your tribes are being planning on joining together, using the j'throk as anchoring.”

Sen's brow furrowed on the strange word she used. “There is for to being no law against tribes merging.”

“It is being dangerous. Larger tribes for to being carrying the greater risk of inbreeding and for to being having attacks by outcasts or the ifrit.” Frejari stopped and put her hand on Sen's arm. “I have also being hearing that Cid wants to take the Crux's place.” She heard nothing of the sort, but spying the rapidly masked shock on Sen's face told her the guess was correct. “You and your friend are for to being reaching for that which is Adnu's to being holding,” she hissed, clutching his arm with a bony-fingered hand and dragging him to a more secluded spot. “What else are you for to being planning?”

Sen shook his head, not willing to give up the C'Deney. Frejari had always terrified him. She always knew things she couldn't possibly know about his tribe, but his and Cid's plan was for the good of everyone; he couldn't betray it.

“No matter,” she spat, releasing him. “You tribe is being guilty enough to for to being casting out.”

Sen gasped. “No.” His tribe was smaller than Cid's and relied on the matches made to gain new warriors and mix their blood; if they were forbidden from this then they would die out. What would become of his son? Sen fell to his knees before the Fayth. “What do you being wanting of me?” he said, bowing his head, already defeated without putting up a fight.

“Being telling me everything.”

 

~*~*~

 

The first warning they got was when a couple of scouts didn't return for the midday meal. The tribe were gathered in the canvas tent, sitting together and chatting as they ate when it was noted pochikas were missing.

“Freya, taking Baltion and finding out where they are being,” Cid said, calling to the tracker and warrior.

The pair barely made it outside the tent when they were set upon, Freya's shout suddenly cut off as her throat was slit.

The C'Deney reacted in an instant; the children grouped together and taken out by Temia and two others through a side flap, as the rest of the tribe surged forward, snatching up weapons that had been lying beside them while they ate.

The rogues turned tail and ran, drawing the tribe with them.

Cid didn't have time to organise his people, such was their rage at their own being killed in front of them. The tribe were scattered, ice weavers lobbing missiles as they ran, with none remaining to defend the camp. The warriors were a mass of fur covered bodies, all rushing headlong into the trap the rogue tribe set, their side appearing from beneath the snow as people rushed by and attacking them in smaller groups of one and two. The confusion they caused made things worse for the C'Deney and there was much yelling and wild swinging of weapons as they attempted to attack and defend themselves from the smaller group.

Cid did his best to get those nearest to him to think before they struck; he was Chief and it was his responsibility to keep his people alive and to lead them. He hefted a mighty club and cracked the skull of the woman coming at him, deadly daggers outstretched in her fists. She yelped and fell to the snow, blue blood spreading outward and Cid turned to the warrior at his side. “Stop. Think!” He shook the woman and she blinked at him.

“Mine Chief?”

“They are being using our size against us. We must being of one mind, one body. Passing the message.”

The Chief's words could be heard repeating over everyone's heads. The few rogues among them being picked off as the C'Deney followed Cid and began to calm their panicked minds.

The rogue tribe scrambled to get free from the knot of people, with many being picked off.

“We must for to being finding the rest,” Cid said, pointing with his club in the direction they had seen the others flee. “Being wary.” He quickly took in the amount of warriors with him. “Those being nearest the camp, returning there and being making it safe.”

The warriors turned and ran back the way they came as the rest continued onwards.

 

Since Cid led the charge, Caleen remained behind with those unable to fight; the young, old and injured. Temia took charge of the j'throk, having a fresh hunting injury. Caleen shook her head; her sister was very much not suited to the life of a warrior. It was almost cruel to make the woman try.

“Being careful with them,” she said to the group of elders who were moving the bodies of Freya and Balthier to a hut, so they could be prepared for burial. Both had children and their loss would be felt greatly by the whole tribe. Caleen decided she would go and check on the little ones and try to offer some kind of comfort.

What none of the tribe expected was a splinter group finding a way around the C'Deney. As Caleen approached the hut where the children were being guarded a strange man charged out from inside, knocking her into a neighbouring hut. He was covered in blood and had a child clutched under each arm. He was quickly followed by two others, one of whom had Temia in a death grip, while the other threw a blade back into the hut, eliciting screams from the children inside.

Caleen recovered quickly. “Stop!” She fisted her hand and a shard of ice shot out from the wall, spearing the man nearest the children's hut through the arm and making him drop the j'throk he had under the other. “I won't being letting you taking them,” Caleen said in a dangerous tone.

“What you being going doing, _pedlr?”_ he spat, gesturing for the others to run.

“I'm being going to killing you,” Caleen said. She flicked her fingers and the injured man ended up with a needle thin spear protruding from his neck. He gasped, choked and fell to the ground; dead.

There were two others still to deal with, but she had to check on those inside the hut first. The children were huddled together, some crying, some comforting the smaller ones. The other two carers were dead, along with one of the pochikas. Several hollow-bone weapons were broken and the dagger the man had thrown was embedded in the wall.

“Nyima,” Caleen said her daughter's name sternly.

“Ma?” The little girl came out from the knot of children, holding onto a wailing baby; they were all blood splattered, but seemed unharmed for the most part. “They were being going to killing all the babes, Ma,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and rage. “They being taking Temia and –”

“I'm knowing,” Caleen said, cutting her off. “You can't being staying in this hut. Taking the others to ours and hiding.”

“But, Ma, what about Temia?”

“Do as you're being telling, Nyima!” Caleen didn't have time to explain. She turned on her heel and ran out of the door, letting the flap drop behind her. She had to get to her sister and the other j'throk before they got lost in the snow.

 

~*~*~

 

“Letting them being go,” Caleen commanded, having taken a bird-mount and flown above the fleeing rogues to cut them off. The young bird flapped its wings and flew off back to the herd, leaving Caleen alone and facing down two rogues, both of whom had hostages.

“You're being only one,” the man, who had Temia, said. He brought her in front of him as a shield, making her cry out in pain from her injury. There was a fresh one to her arm, the blood soaking into her sleeve and turning the fabric black. “Getting out the way, or we being starting killing them.”

“They're for to being going to anyway!” Temia screamed. “I'm being hearing them, they were being sent by –”

Whatever Temia was going to say was silenced by her throat being slit.

The two j'throk screamed and began struggling to get free.

Caleen opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

The rogue threw Temia to the ground where she lay gulping, choking on her own blood and still trying to finish her sentence. “Guessing she is being right,” he shrugged, smiling evilly.

It felt like her lungs were going to explode out of her chest. Caleen sucked in a breath and shrieked. Ice shot out from the ground around the two men, piercing their limbs and holding them in place. The children slipped free and ran towards her, placing themselves behind her and hugging each other.

“Temia!” Caleen screamed, tears tracking down her face and freezing to her cheeks. The feeling building inside her could not be described as anything other than cold. It felt like her body was being frozen from within. She clenched her fists against it and pressed them against her chest, trying to force it away from her heart before it killed her. An orb of white light grew between her hands, colder than anything she'd felt before in her life. Yelling her anger and grief to the sky, she threw it at the pinned rogues, who were trying to chip the ice skewering them.

The orb shattered into streamers of white, separating to reveal snowflakes, wrapping around the men in a localized blizzard. Their breath misted in front of their faces, harsh and panting as they struggled to breathe; their lungs freezing solid. It wasn't enough punishment to satisfy Caleen. Rushing them, she formed a club made of ice and bashed their skulls in, seeing their eyes widen in that last moment, she wanted to crush them to powder. She struck over and over, the ice freezing their flesh and turning them to statues. The only sound was the club beating down, like tenderizing an animal carcass. Caleen was silent the whole time, and she only stopped when she could no longer physically lift it and the men were blue pulp.

She collapsed to her knees and sobbed, crawling towards Temia, who lay staring sightlessly upward. The two children approached cautiously, fearful of Caleen's fury. They only hurried when she opened an arm to them and all huddled over the body crying until a tracker and his team found them.

 

~*~*~

 

“She was for to being saying they were for to being sent by someone,” Caleen said tonelessly, as she lay in the warm bath Cid had prepared for her, though her insides still felt the chill of her magic. The two j'throk were returned to their parents, and Temia's body had been removed to the preparation hut along with the other men, women and pochikas that had been killed that day.

“Not now, Caleen,” Cid replied, shutting his eyes and ignoring the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He was hunched over in his seat, destroyed by grief. His parents had always told him to look after his little sister, she was too innocent for such a harsh world, too gentle. Cid knew he was as well; a silly dreamer, not hardly a warrior. He could inspire great things in others, and hid his own weaknesses well. But, he couldn't hide Temia's and thought becoming a Fayth would give her protection. He'd learned that path had its own dangers, but he was so sure he could look after her, he pressed ahead with his plans. He wanted his people, his _family_ to be safe. “I'm was being failing her.” He covered his face with his hands and sobbed quietly.

“You weren't even being there,” Caleen said, getting out of the bone bathtub. “I was being failing her, Cid. I should have for to being killing them the moment I saw them.” She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and crouched in front of him. “Husband,” she said softly, putting her arms around him. “I am being so sorry.”

 

Nyima lay in bed, listening to her parents quite murmurs, sniffing and hugging the chick she'd brought inside the hut with her. Animals weren't allowed, they could be eaten when times were lean, but Nyima didn't want to make her parents pretend they were fine so they could look after her. She had gone to see her aunt's body when it was brought back, not believing Temia was dead. It wasn't fair, she raged silently, gritting her teeth so she wouldn't cry. She recalled the look on Temia's face when the strange men came into the hut and attacked the pochikas standing nearest to them; no rogue tribe had ever hurt children. Those people may have been cast out by the Fayth, but they still knew how valuable and precious the life of an innocent was.

“ _Being killing them all,” the man said. “That way we'll for to being getting her for certain.”_

Those caring for the children fought with everything they had, but they were not in their prime and had the added disadvantage of protecting the young ones. Some of the children tried to help, striking the men with their training weapons, but they were no match and only got in the way. It was only when Temia shouted she was Cid's sister that they stopped and dragged her off with them, grabbing some of the girls around Nyima's age to take with.

At ten years old her arms weren't long enough to encompass everyone, but Nyima gathered the others around her, with the babes in the centre, using their bodies to protect them if the men came back; she wouldn't let them kill the babies, she'd die first. The relief when she heard her mother's voice was more than she could bear. Nyima wanted to throw herself into her arms, but she had to stay strong for everyone else and get them to the Chief's hut where they would be safe. The baby in her arms was so heavy and she'd stumbled at the end when they reached the doorway to her home, but they made it and she quickly got everyone settled and found rags to wash the worst of the blood splatter off them. She hoped Temia saw and was proud of her. She rubbed her face against the chick's downy side, trying to wipe away her tears.

 

~*~*~

 

“That tribe was being twice the size you being claiming.”

The voice jolted Frejari from her meditation and she blinked slowly at the woman who violated the Fayth's sacred space. “You should being not being here,” she said in a thick voice, trying to shake off the lingering wisps from the meeting she'd had with Sylmy; the Goddess was pleased with Frejari's methods of keeping the people pure. “Did you being completing your divine trial?”

The woman glared at the Fayth and yanked off the robe she'd put on to disguise herself in the Crux camp. “Did you being not hearing me? That tribe is being killing most of mine!” She should have known better than to listen to the Fayth when she found the stone symbol left at one of their camp sites; she recognized the picture and had been curious why Frejari wanted to see her. The thought of her tribe being brought in from the cold had convinced her it was worth the risk to carry out the Fayth's order, but Frejari lied to her; the C'Deney tribe was no easy mark, and finding the females they were told needed to die was even harder. The amount of j'throk in their camp was more than they expected and none of them spoke the name of the Chief's daughter, so they had no idea which one it was. Only Temia, the Chief's sister, admitted her identity, so killing her was their only saving grace.

“If you were being successful, it would for to being a worthwhile sacrifice,” Frejari replied. “Were you?”

“Temia is being dead,” the woman replied bluntly. “I being seeing mine man slit her throat with mine own eyes.” She didn't add that she had also seen the icy justice given out by the ice weaver, but it was something she would never forget. Whatever else Frejari wanted of her tribe she wouldn't get it. “Keeping your part of the bargain; being bringing us in from the cold.”

Frejari stood up in a swirl of navy layers and went to a shelf where she carefully picked out a jar full of small, red seeds that had a black dot on each. “Your tribe must being purifying before they can being returning to us,” she said, measuring out a pouch's worth and holding them out to the woman. “These must being making into a tea and all of your tribe must being drinking it. If any do not, the whole tribe will for to being rejecting by the Goddesses.”

The woman slowly reached out a hand for the pouch. “And that is being all? No more?”

“That will for to being all,” Frejari replied, waiting until the woman had slipped back out of the hut to smile at the painful death she had just sentenced the tribe to. The poison was necessary; she couldn't have anyone knowing what she had done to protect the people. Her smiled faded, however, when she thought of the Chief's daughter still living; if she was to stop Cid's plan then at least one of the two j'throk had to die, and holding the blade above the son of Sen would only keep him quiet while he was within the Fayth's reach. No, the C'Deney girl would be the one to die. The sister was dead, and soon Caleen would follow and then Cid would have no way of furthering his tribe's plot. He would have to hand the C'Deney over to another in the end. All Frejari had to do was make sure the next C'Deney Chief was one she could control; the whole tribe was a festering wound that needed to be purified one way or another. She looked to the shelf where the jars of herbs and potions were kept and frowned when she saw she was getting low on the stock of pellets she and the others used to speak to Sylmy. She would have to arrange another meeting with the ifrit to obtain more. Frejari's smile returned, it must be divine intervention. She needed supplies and she had women to trade; the ifrit would find no disappointment from taking the C'Deney tribe.

 


	10. The worst day of her life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyima's tribe is ambushed and murdered by the ifrit. Through luck or divine intervention she survives, along with a handful of kin.

Nyima sat on the outer edge of the circle of children inside the tent. Her father was telling a story and she knew from experience those closest would scream the loudest.

“Where is your father being learning these?” Taran whispered to her.

The Nyx appeared along the trail a few weeks before and the tribes travelled together ever since. The entire Nyx tribe took the role of trackers, leading the C'Deney, who were half a day's walk behind. Warriors from both tribes went between and the atmosphere was one of much excitement and joy.

Nyima got the sense something was coming to a head, but didn't know what. Every time she went into her hut her parents and Sen stopped talking.

“His _sudran,”_ Nyima whispered back, once the screams died down and Cid had moved onto a new story. “When she was for to being still a young warrior she is finding a place with pictures all over the walls. They weren't being anything like what we're being knowing and she was for to being bringing them back to the tribe and making up tales about them.” She smiled, thinking of the grandmother she never met and how she entertained the tribe with words. “The Fayth was for to being taking most of the pictures one gathering, but _vydran_ still has a few.”

“Can I being seeing them?” Taran glanced over at Cid, who was absorbed in telling the story of the time he met the Goddess of Death. The children were all silent as he used his whole body to tell the story, even throwing himself onto the floor to re-enact the moment he realised he was in the presence of Adnu. “Could we being going now?”

Nyima knew she shouldn't. Her mother was strict on the matter; once her cycle begun, she was not allowed to be alone with any boy of another tribe. She and Taran weren't kin, even though the tribes were becoming closer as time went by.

 _Sudran couldn't have being meaning Taran,_ she decided, nodding and shuffling back towards the edge of the tent. “I'll being showing you, but we have to for to being quick.”

 

The pair sneaked out and darted towards the large hut that belonged to Nyima and her family. Once inside, the eleven-year-old girl, led her fourteen-year-old friend to a room at the rear, pulling the animal-skin covering aside from the doorway and waving him in. “This is where da is for to being keeping all of the things we're being finding,” she explained, as Taran's eyes widened.

“I've never for to being seeing so many in one place,” he breathed.

Objects were placed around the room: bricks from structures found hidden under the snow were stacked in a small pile and on top of them were flat, circular pieces of metal with pictures stamped on them. There were several game boards and pieces, all carved from different colored stone. There were fabrics in colors Taran had seen on bird's feathers in the jungle, although they were still less vibrant. “The Fayth being wearing this color,” he said, touching one in a dark blue. “It's being so light, too.”

“Yes, those are for to being found under the ground. I think they were being there for a very long time because they're not being very well cared for.” Her nose wrinkled at the smell. “The pictures are being here,” she said, grabbing Taran's wrist and pulling him towards the far wall. “Da is being keeping them covered up so they don't being rotting. I'm being thinking many of these things aren't being for the cold.” Nyima moved the picture forward with one hand and pulled the hide covering off it, then set it back again. “What do you for to being thinking?”

Taran's eyes widened. “It's being the most beautiful thing I've ever being seeing,” he said quietly. The picture hadn't suffered the same way the fabrics had. It was a clear image, wide as he was tall, and came up past his belly button in height. “But, your _vydran_ is being keeping a picture of monsters?”

Nyima rolled her eyes. “They're not being monsters, they're _Aetumuh.”_ At Taran's blank look she frowned. “Your _sudran_ is for to being telling you stories of a princess, but not the Aetumuh?”

Taran shrugged, having forgotten that he'd told Nyima about that; his mother learned the word from her mother, a Fayth, as well as other words, and it was a tribe secret he shouldn't have shared.

“Da's _sudran_ was for to being making up names for them all, but I can't being remembering them.” Nyima went on, pointing at the group of metal warriors positioned at the rear of the picture. “These ones are being the Chief and his best warriors. And for to being looking, here's Nyima too.” She gently touched the blue-skinned figure who was standing next to a woman with wings, holding a harp.

“Nyima's not being an Aetumuh,” Taran said. “She's being a Goddess.”

“Nyima is being a warrior,” Nyima argued.

“These are being Aetumuh,” Taran repeated slowly, as if he suddenly knew everything about the beings. “Nyima wouldn't for to being in a picture with them. She would for to being with the other Goddesses.”

“Maybe she was for to being an Aetumuh before she was for to being a Goddess.” Nyima didn't know if this was even possible, but she knew the woman in the painting was Nyima; what other blue-skinned woman could it be?

“Maybe it's being a creature from another place. People don't being have wings, either. Or having skin of metal.”

The children's voices grew louder as they argued, silenced when a third voice joined them.

“What are you being doing in here with my daughter?” Caleen glared at Taran and he shrank back under the force of it.

“It's being my fault, Ma,” Nyima said quickly. “I'm being wanting to show Da's pictures to Taran.”

“Get out,” she said to Taran, who ran past her. “You should for to being knowing better, Nyima,” Caleen turned on her. “You are not being a babe any longer. You should not being acting so free with yourself.”

Nyima scowled. “I wasn't. Taran wanted –”

“Taran wanted,” Caleen mocked. “Men will for to being wanting, Nyima. Even before they are being given the blessing of the marriage rite.” She stepped close to Nyima and crouched down. “When you are being grown, men will for to being looking at you and being wanting, but they may only have when you also for to being wanting them.”

“I'm being knowing,” she muttered, her cheeks mottling as she blushed. “I'm not being wanting Taran.” There came a sound of stifled laughter and Nyima looked at her mother. “Why is that being funny? You for to being saying– ”

Caleen stopped her. “I'm knowing what I'm being saying. It's being surprising you know your own mind at such a young age.”

Nyima scowled. “Either I am being a babe or I am not.”

“Go and see Marcus,” Caleen said shortly. “You can for to being spending the day _with_ the babes. Perhaps that is being reminding you to respect your elders.”

Nyima stomped off, holding her tongue until she was well out of her mother's hearing, and then went into a storm of muttering things she would have said if she wasn't so worried about the punishment being worse than babysitting.

 

“Why does that girl not being having your temperament?” Caleen said to Cid, having made sure Nyima went to look after the babes before going to the tent where her husband was.

“She's being wanting to be like you,” he replied, waving off the last of the children as he sat back, satisfied at having scared a few of them.

“She is succeeding,” Caleen said wryly. “She is for to being questioning everything and disagrees with everything.”

“She is being like me then,” Cid chuckled. “If she were being like you she would for to being destroying everything in sight in a temper.”

“I'm not being destroying everything in sight,” she shot back. “Just your things,” she added with a smile, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “My dreamer.” Her expression grew serious again. “We're being needing to decide on who is remaining with the children when the rest of us are being going to the Crux.”

“Later, when Sen is arriving.”

“You truly believe this is being the way?” She wanted to follow her husband. She wanted her people to live in a world that was safe. She wanted Temia's death to not be for nothing. Still, she couldn't help but doubt.

“Mmm,” Cid replied, putting his arm around her. “Those who are for to being going first must cut the path for others for to being following. Even if we do not for to being successful, our tribe has being leading and others will for to being knowing there is another way.” This was the only time Cid had ever expressed the thought his people may not survive to see the new path he was leading them on. He had spent his whole life travelling to this moment and now, as it was upon them, he was filled with sadness.

“We will for to being successful,” Caleen said, leaning into him. “We have for to being making a strong tribe who all are for to being desiring the same thing; to find an end to this way of life. It is being killing us, and not even the Fayth can being preventing such a thing. In the end this world will be lifeless; is that really what the Goddesses are for to being wanting?”

Cid agreed it couldn't be, for why else would Nyima appear to them and grant them magic to keep them alive? The couple spent the rest of the day settling things for their people; they would begin the journey once the preparations were complete.

 

~*~*~

 

“Da is for to being saying I have to stay ahead of everyone and scout for the Nyx today,” Taran said a few days later. He'd avoided being alone with Nyima after the pair were caught, but came looking for her to tell her this news in case she thought he was ignoring her. His father was acting odd, more so than usual, snapping whenever Taran mentioned any of the C'Deney tribe by name, so was more than happy to avoid him until he calmed down.

“Being by yourself?” Nyima frowned. “You're not being old enough to do that.”

“My tribe doesn't being following the same rules as yours in everything,” he replied. “We're being smaller, so our scouts must being learning quicker and at a younger age.” He smiled at the worried look on her face. “Don't for to being worrying. I have the gift of a Goddess.” He held his gloved hand out and scowled at his open palm.

“You being looking silly,” Nyima said, when nothing happened.

“I can for to being doing it. Nyima was for to being blessing me when our tribe is being attacked. I was for to being surrounded and being thinking I'm being going to die, but then She blessed me!” Taran stared so hard at his hand his eyes crossed.

Nyima laughed, but then gasped as she was tipped off her feet by a small wave of snow rising up from the ground.

“I told you I'm being blessed!” he crowed. His expression quickly changed when he took in the unimpressed stare she gave him.

His father had said that it would be better if Taran didn't try to win Nyima's heart any longer, even though he'd been saying the two would marry when they were older since they first met. He couldn't turn off his feelings, strange as they were. He wanted to impress Nyima, like the older warriors did when they tried to win a woman, but whenever he thought of her he got a pain in the pit of his stomach, like someone was trying to rip his nethers off. It didn't stop his feelings, but it did make him irritable with the object of his affections. “Being giving me your hand,” he said, reaching out to pull her up.

Nyima ended up far closer to Taran than was appropriate for non-kin and she inhaled quickly, looking down and trying not to blush. “Thank you,” she said in a quiet voice.

Taran's eyes swept her face, seeming to notice for the first time how much more mature she looked; it wouldn't many years before they were both grown and could get married. He would convince his father that it was still a good idea for him and Nyima to wed. He dropped her hand and stepped back. “It was being my fault you're being falling,” he said.

“You will for to being having to making it up to me,” she replied. The smile that came to her lips made Taran want to move closer again, but then he got another ache low down and didn't.

“What are you being having in mind?” He knew whatever it was wouldn't be anything of interest to him, but he would do it because seeing Nyima smile and laugh was worth everything.

 

“That's not being fair!” Nyima wiped the snow from her eyes and glared across the field at Taran. “I haven't being having any magic, so you shouldn't being using yours!”

“That's being a good argument, princess. Here's being mine reply.” A snowball formed a foot in front of her and she dodged at the last second. Once he relaxed, Taran found it much easier to control his magic, though his learning was still lacking.

When Nyima had suggested they sneak away to have a snowball fight before Taran had to go off and scout for his tribe, she thought him struggling with his magic would give her an edge; she was wrong. She ducked another snowball and stamped her foot in frustration, although all that was heard was a minute crunch as the snow compacted under it. “Taran, I'm for to being meaning it!”

Taran threw his head back and laughed. “That must being making you feel better!” He needed the game to end quickly, so he could catch up to his tribe before they noticed he was missing; it would be easy enough if he borrowed one of the C'Deney's mounts, but he had to finish the snowball fight first.

Nyima narrowed her eyes; she refused to lose! She gathered together another fistful of snow and lobbed it at him. Taran dived to the side and threw one back, pelting her in the face again.

“Taran!” Nyima's face stung and ice crystals stuck to her lashes. “That hurts!”

“You're being telling me not to use magic, so I'm not. Do you not being wanting me to hit you in the head too?” He scowled at her. “You should for to being having set the rules before we start.”

“If this is being how your tribe is fighting snow fights then you are being the worst tribe in v’neketyh!” She turned to go back to her tribe, who were a smudges of movement in the middle distance. They would pack up their things ready to follow the Nyx the next day, although her father explained she and the other j'throk would remain in a camp with the Nyx j'throk and some elder warriors once they got closer to the Crux tribe. They would then be collected up a few days later. Nyima had never been separated from her tribe in this way and she worried, but her father seemed excited, so she trusted him to know what was best.

Taran quickly got to his feet and slid towards her. “I'm being sorry, Nyima,” he said, clutching both her hands and squeezing them. “Mine tribe is for to being doing things differently to yours, that's all. We're being needing to find a way together.”

Nyima frowned, it sounded like Taran meant something completely different to the rules of a snowball fight.

“You're being knowing you're adoring me,” he smiled.

Nyima blushed. “Do not.”

“Of course you for to being doing. You know that our fathers being wanting us to –” He stopped and peered at something over her shoulder. The smiled dropped from his face. “Nyima, run.”

“What?” She tried to look, but Taran was already pulling her along, away from where the tribe were. “My people are being over that way,” she said, pointing.

“We'll never being getting there in time. We're being having to hide!”

Nyima's heart sped up; what had he seen? Was is a genoh? A vicious animal? She wanted to look, but she didn't want to look. In the end she glanced over her shoulder and saw spots of light dancing and growing larger. “What is that?” she panted to Taran, having never seen anything like it before.

“Ifrit.”

She stopped dead, and Taran yanked her forward. “No, we're being having to telling the tribe!”

“We'll for to being cutting down before we get there,” Taran said back. He could hear the rhythmic thudding of the Ifrit's boots hitting the snow; the sound growing louder with every passing second he wasted trying to convince Nyima to come with him. “They're coming!” He twisted and picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder and jogging towards a cliff face that was acting as a wind break.

A bellow made Nyima look up and scream; the Ifrit was almost on top of them! How did they catch up so quickly? She could pick out the blue of the monster's eyes as it closed the distance. In his claw he held a stick of flame, and the heat and smell of it wafted towards her on the breeze. “We're for to being having to get to the tribe!” She screamed at Taran, but he ignored her, putting her down and throwing her towards a fissure in the cliff face, cramming them both in the gap and nudging her along the narrow passage way until they both popped out into a cavity. The Ifrit's roar of frustration echoed around the small space and the sound of claws scraping the wall made Nyima shudder. The stench that followed them into the space was foul and stung the back of her throat.

She turned to Taran. “We're being having to going and helping them!”

“Are you being mad?” Taran's eyes were huge. “They're Ifrit!” He rubbed his other shoulder where the beast had caught him with the torch, and gasped when he felt heat scorch his skin. “I'm being burning!” He dove to the floor and rolled about, his clothes emitting a hiss as it touched the icy ground and the small fire was put out. The boy panted with relief, his entire body going limp. “We can't being helping them,” he muttered, wanting to cry.

“You won't being helping them!” Nyima yelled. She hadn't noticed the flames creeping up his back, but seeing how easily they were put out she felt the tribe stood a chance. “You are for to being having magic. You are being an ice weaver. You can for to being doing something.” Nyima fell to her knees. “Please, Taran. They're being my people. We could for to being finding a way to reach your tribe. Together we can win.”

“You want me to for to being sacrificing my tribe?” As soon as he said it he knew it was wrong.

Nyima stood up, her face a mask of disgust. “You would for to being sacrificing mine. Coward.” She moved to the gap and put her eye to it. The Ifrit chasing them was gone. Most likely to the camp with the others. “I refuse to for to being sitting by while mine people are for to being slaughtered. I'm for to being having to do something.”

“You're being a child, Nyima. You being having no magic and no skill with weapons. You're for to being getting in the way.” Taran sat up and looked at her pleadingly. He didn't want her to die; he wanted her. If he could keep her safe then it would be all right.

“I would rather being for to dying bravely than being cowering in this place with you!” She slipped through the gap before Taran could stop her and emerged the other side. Shouts came in the distance; and screams. A strange crackling noise was loudest of all. It sounded like some angry beast. Nyima panted, fear stealing her courage. She tried to calm her breathing. “They will for to being fine,” she said to herself. “My tribe are being strong warriors.”

“Nyima!” Taran's voice called through the gap. “For to being waiting for me. I'm being having to keep you safe.”

“Being keeping yourself safe!” she yelled back, turning and running towards the camp, knowing that Taran wouldn't follow.

 

~*~*~

 

Everything hurt. Everything hurt and felt numb at the same time. A heavy weight pressed on her chest. She couldn't breathe. Something clogged her nose. Nyima shook her head and felt a damp braid snake across her cheek. With effort, she moved her hand to her face and wiped it, opening her eyes to see fingers stained blue with blood.

 _I'm being hurt?_ She stared then looked around. She was covered in snow, with very little space for movement or air. She was buried. This was a bad thing. Those who got caught in avalanches were never found. _How did this for to being happening?_ Everything was white around her and everything hurt. She couldn't get past the pain to think. _Which way is being up?_ If she could find up, she could dig her way out, maybe. She'd never been buried in the snow before; if she had she would have died. Blinking, she tried to clear the fog in her mind that said she was having the same thoughts over and over. _Dig._ The thought had come to her a moment ago and been lost. Now, it became the only thing to remember. With effort, Nyima reached out and curled her fingers into the snow above her, scraping it away and to the side. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes before she uncovered the star-studded sky and sucked in a deep breath of cold, foul-tasting air; there was a scent on the wind she didn't recognise, or like. She rolled over and crawled out from, what turned out to be, a snowbank. It was night and eerily silent. _Where is everyone? Where is for to being the camp?_ Lumps of ice were scattered about where the huts had stood. The snowy ground looked dark and slushy. Feathers blew on the breeze, white and black, but with no sign of any mounts. The carts the people used to carry their belongings were gone too. Had the tribe moved on and left her behind?

“Ma? Da?” She tried not to panic. She was alone, but she was sure someone would notice she was missing and send a tracker. Nyima took a couple of steps and tripped over something.

Falling to her knees, her stomach rebelled and she threw up all she had eaten that day. Her head throbbed even worse, her eyes were blurry with tears and her nose was running. She looked back to see what had tripped her and recoiled at the severed and blackened limb. Her head whipped around, seeing things clearly as horror swept away the lingering fog in her mind. The tribe hadn't moved on without her. The tribe were still here.

“Oh,” she said, her voice cracking. Things she hadn't even noticed were now leaping out at her. The strange lumps scattered about were body parts; warriors torn limb from limb and thrown down. Scorch marks blackened much of the camp. All of the huts were destroyed. Furs and other things lay scattered about, some smoking like the peat fires when they were first lit. Worse, it was so quiet. She never knew such silence; there was always sound, even if it was the muffled sighs of her parent's breathing as they slept.

As Nyima got to her feet and walked about she heard a strange crunching sound underfoot that wasn't snow. She lifted her foot and saw shards of what looked like ice, but was sharp like a blade. The pieces carried a strange odour that she didn't recognise. A noise behind her made her whirl and thrust her hands out. The snow between her and whatever it was rose up to form a wall, then immediately fell, revealing Taran. Nyima sobbed, throwing herself at him. “What is for to being happening?”

Taran was shocked Nyima used magic, but relieved she was alive. He hugged her tightly. “Ifrit, Nyima.”

Behind him a small group of Nyx warriors, led by Sen, who wore a woeful expression. With the warriors were a few j'throk of Nyima's tribe: one a couple of years older than her, one her age, one younger and two little ones. The oldest two had babes in their arms. There were no other kin with the Nyx.

Nyima untangled herself from Taran and went to them. “Where is everyone? Where are for to being the other babes?”

“They're all being dead,” the eldest whispered, trying not to frighten the little ones, who were still in shock. “The ifrit is for to being killing them.”

“No, not our tribe,” Nyima argued. “We are being having the best warriors. My father is being the greatest leader and my mother is being the greatest warrior.”

“Nyima, you and the others will come with us,” Sen said, putting his hand on her shoulder and shaking his head; it was better that she didn't recall what happened. From what little the j'throk said, Nyima put herself in front of an Ifrit to distract it while they escaped to warn the Nyx.

 

The C'Deney tribe needed to die, Frejari had said. Sen, refused at first. Then, his son was attacked and only the blessing of Nyima saved him. The next time Frejari's messenger came to him, he agreed, finding the C'Deney and convincing them that travelling in tandem would ease the union of the two groups.

Every time he looked at Cid and Caleen he felt sick at his deception. Every time he looked at their daughter self-loathing ate at his soul; she was going to die because of him.

It was through luck that his people survived the ambush; he'd noticed one of his tribe acting strangely and trying to sneak away from the camp. When Sen had grabbed him and demanded to know what was happening he learned that Frejari was planning on having the ifrit come for the C'Deney. Sen was shocked at this news. Frejari controlled the ifrit. There would be no survival for anyone who they came upon.

Somehow, he'd separated his tribe from the C'Deney and led them away; self-preservation taking a higher priority than loyalty and friendship. He'd then closed his eyes and ears to anything that came, only acting when the j'throk showed up and said Nyima sent them for help. He'd expected to return to this spot to find the girl as dead as the rest, but she lived.

Frejari would believe she died.

Sen looked over his shoulder at the dazed girl, plodding beside her remaining people towards the the Nyx camp. How she survived he didn't know, but she had and now he would spend the rest of his life making amends to Cid and Caleen by bringing up Nyima as his own; it was the only way to protect her from Frejari. The other j'throk were still in danger as well, but if he was clever he could conceal them from the Fayth. It was all he could do to make up for what he'd done.

 


	11. I'll never for to being.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years after the decimation of her tribe, Nyima is still struggling to fit in with the Nyx, who took her in. Studying ice weaving and waiting for the chance to train as a hunter are all she cares about, although Taran thinks she should make room for more fun.

“ _Run faster,” the pochikas beside her gasped._

_The Ifrit were chasing after the children, picking them off one by one. Those carrying babes fell first and Nyima clenched her teeth to stop from screaming. “They’ll being catching everyone,” she panted back, hating herself for being useless. She shoved a smaller child forward when they slowed in front of her. “We’re being have to do something!”_

_A strange look passed over the boy’s face and he nodded grimly. “Don’t stopping running,” he said, stopping and drawing a bone-bladed knife from his waistband._

“ _What? No!” Nyima slid to a halt and waved the others on. “Being finding the Nyx,” she yelled, tackling the legs of the Ifrit about to strike the boy down, causing it to miss._

“ _Nyima!” The boy grabbed her hand and yanked her up._

_The Ifrit got to its feet, eyes flicking to the rapidly disappearing children, then to the two in front. “Nyima,” it repeated in a lisping voice._

_She felt a chill go through her at the way it said her name. “I won’t being letting you hurting them!” she shouted, trying to hold tightly to her courage. She had no weapon and no skills. What could she do? She wanted to save someone! Tears stung her eyes and her throat clogged with unvoiced sobs. She couldn’t let this happen!_

_A frigid wind blew at her back, colder than anything she’d ever felt before._

_As the Ifrit advanced, she and her kin stepped back, the boy’s hand shaking as he pointed the knife at it. “We’ll being killing you,” he said, bravely._

_The Ifrit laughed. “How do you think you will do that?” it mocked._

_The ice creeping up her back was both numbing and painful. It felt like tiny daggers were stabbing their way along her spine. It moved upwards, curling around her shoulder and stealing her breath; it felt like she was frozen and burnt at once. Her eyes flicked briefly from the Ifrit to that spot and she gasped at the ghostly, blue fingers clutching her. She looked to her kin and saw another hand reach out to touch him._

“ _With our Blessing,” whispered a furious, icy voice. The hands gripped tightly and Nyima’s whole body throbbed in pain, almost driving her to her knees. It then retreated, along with the frozen wind._

_The Ifrit had seen nothing apart from two children looking scared. It held up a glossy-looking blade and touched it with pinched talons, making it burst into flame._

_Nyima stepped back and threw an arm up to ward it off the oncoming blow and a wall of snow rose, hitting the sword and putting the flames out._

_The Ifrit looked at it and growled. It bared its teeth and came at them again._

 

 

Nyima’s eyes shot open. She was breathing heavily, staring up at the ceiling, but still seeing the approaching Ifrit in her mind’s eye.

“Are you being well?” Sen’s concerned voice came from the other side of the hide covering the doorway to her bedroom. He wasn’t kin, so couldn’t enter.

“Yes,” she said in a croaky voice, sitting up and hugging her knees to her chest. Her heart thudding, she had a fine layer of sweat covering her. _I’m being all right. I’m being alive._ She rolled the shoulder Goddess Nyima touched, shuddering at the memory of ice chilling her to the bone. She sensed Sen wanted to say more, but, after a beat of silence, his footsteps retreated and she could hear him murmuring to Taran to go back to bed.

Nyima lived with the Nyx for two years. It still felt strange. She didn’t think she would ever wake up and not wonder why she wasn’t in her room in her parent’s hut, or step outside and expect to see the familiar faces of her tribe.

At first, the Nyx took in all the children who survived the Ifrit attack, but every time they met with another tribe they handed one over until only Nyima remained. Sen explained this was because they could not have so many of another tribe merge with theirs without it raising suspicion; the Nyx could end up cast out otherwise.

Nyima was sad to see the other j’throk she’d grown up with leave, but if it meant they were safe, then she couldn’t object. She threw herself into training to keep her emotions at bay; the Nyx began lessons younger than the C’Deney, as Taran told her. Being a smaller tribe they needed to gain skills faster, so she was grateful for that at least. She was behind them all, so trained hard to catch up to their level, falling into bed an exhausted heap at the end of each day.

It was only at night that her thoughts ran wild and her memories of the attack came to the surface. The scene where the Goddess Nyima blessed her was a common one, though still terrified her, knowing it was true. Sometimes she didn’t wake before Ifrit caught them and it forced her to watch as it tore her kin limb from limb.

 

~*~*~

 

As well as weapons training, Nyima was also part of the group of pochikas and older warriors perfecting their skills in ice weaving. The Goddess blessed any and not only the young, so students’ ages varied.

Nyima frowned heavily, eyes narrowed in concentration at the lump of ice in front of her. She already discarded one piece after the sculpture she was trying to make turned into a grotesque monster. She’d wanted to smash it, but that would have drawn attention. As it was, she shut her eyes and took several deep breaths, then began again.

As the group of twenty worked on their blocks of ice, an elder walked the space between them and distorted them, forcing everyone to adapt and make fine adjustments; this was the way everyone learned to focus the gift given to them by Goddess Nyima. Once decided they were precise enough not to cause accidents they would move onto combat using their gift; Nyima was looking forward to that.

“That’s being pretty,” Taran complimented, breaking her concentration.

“Mmm,” she replied, pulling a face at the crude copy of a tree she had made. The tribe passed one the day before and she was drawn to the shape and how the icicles clung to it, but she couldn’t get the branches to look right and became frustrated trying to make her snow delicate enough to lie on top without the whole thing looking like it should bow from the weight.

“What is it?” He tilted his head about.

“A tree,” Nyima said, scowling. “How can it being looking pretty if you do not even being knowing what it is?” she bit out the question, irritation rising.

Before he could answer she felt something wet slap the back of her neck. She turned to see Anxie and Jihl giggling and whispering.

Nyima’s lips thinned and she took a deep breath; it wouldn’t be right for her to rise to their baiting. She scooped the snow into her hand and flicked it to the ground.

Conflicts between people were a rare thing. The tribes-people needed to rely on each other in tense situations, so arguments had to settle quickly. However, Nyima was an outsider to this tribe and Anxie decided that she shouldn’t be there at all, never failing to make that message clear with tricks and muttered comments. Taran usually stepped in, but Nyima couldn’t expect him to do that forever.

“Did you being seeing what he is being doing to my sculpture?” A heavy-set boy complained loudly, as the elder dismissed them.

“Being making it better?” his skinny friend laughed. “Couldn’t have being making it worse!”

The duo scuffled as they walked, knocking into a stern-faced girl, Dalia, who punched the smaller one’s shoulder. “Being growing up, you two!”

Nyima shook her head fondly; they reminded her of her own brothers, always fighting and arguing. She then frowned; _I don’t being having brothers and sisters anymore._

“I’m being thinking my sculpture is being turning out the best,” Anxie bragged.

“The Elder didn’t even being getting to yours yet,” Taran pointed out. “It’s not being easy to work with deforming ice,” he added.

Anxie rolled her blue eyes. “So is being saying the Chief’s son.”

“If you’re being having issue with that then go getting your parents to being challenging him.”

Anxie sniffed and turned her face away.

“Hmph, thought not.” Taran wrapped his fingers around Nyima’s wrist and tugged her along with him. “Come on, Nyima.”

 

Nyima let Taran lead her away only so far before pulling free. “You don’t being having to drag me about like some baby,” she said crossly.

“My father is being telling me to look after you and that’s what I’m being doing,” he replied, his frown identical to hers. His father hadn’t really needed to tell him, he had promised to always look after Nyima after letting her down so badly the day her people died. He would protect her.

“We’re being in camp. What could being happening?”

“Anxie could being burying you in snow?” His grin erased his frown.

Nyima rolled her eyes. “Funny,” she said in a humourless tone.

“Da is being putting us on the same scout team, so we may as well being staying close to one another.”

This wasn’t news to either of them, Sen always partnered Nyima with Taran since she became old enough to scout for the tribe; his desire to keep her safe was at the forefront of his mind although to Taran it seemed as if his father was still privately pushing for the two to become a couple.

Lunch was a snatched bowl of fish stew; without the C’Deney’s greater hunting skills it turned out the Nyx were southern fishermen and stuck close to the borderlands, travelling from east to west. Nyima never noticed this, but once she had she realised her tribe had only ever seen the Nyx when they were travelling south themselves. She wasn’t keen on seafood, but since there was little else on offer, she ate it and tried to ignore the overly fishy taste.

Anxie and Jihl sat with an older girl and played a noisy game of cards. Nyima looked longingly at them, recalling she and her sisters would do the same. When Anxie caught her staring, she gave her a challenging look, that Nyima returned with more feeling than she thought she had. A bubble of anger filled her chest at the way the other girl stared at her, as if she had no right to breathe the same air as the Nyx tribe, and she stood up, intending on settling things with her fists.

“Nyima,” Taran grabbed her wrist and yanked her down again before anyone noticed the tension between the two girls. “Ignoring her. She’s being sore because she’s finding out her father is wanting to being Chief after my mother is being travelling to the eternal frost.”

“Why would that being making her hate me?” Nyima wasn’t even sure she cared to know the answer, but trying to find sympathy for Anxie would make her less likely to want to hit the girl.

“You’re not even being Nyx and you’re being having a better place in the tribe than she is.” He leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, “Anxie’s mother is being the most clumsy warrior in the tribe and can’t being trusted to carry supplies on hunts without dropping them.”

If Taran was expecting Nyima to find this humorous, then she disappointed him, when it did not raise a smile from her.

Nyima shook her head instead. “That is being sad for her.” She was so proud of her mother for her place in the tribe; a brave warrior, a leader, an ice weaver, teacher, mother, sister, friend. Caleen was many things. Nyima stood up, blinking back the sudden onslaught of emotion making her eyes fill. “I’m being needing to go,” she excused herself and found a quiet spot, sinking to her knees as her face crumpled and tears rolled down her cheeks.

 

~*~*~

 

Sen spread the scout teams out several miles around the area of the camp, in teams of two or three. Taran and Nyima were by themselves, apart from the mounts they’d used to get to their location. They had a small pack of supplies with them and were passing the time playing a game while also keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. They sat in the snow, with a ground rug under them to keep the chill from seeping into their clothes.

“You’re being knowing I’ll being winning eventually,” Nyima said, as she called out her move. She recovered from her earlier upset before Taran came looking for her. She stayed quiet for most of the afternoon, however, and only became more lively after Taran suggested a game.

“That’s because you’re being too stubborn to know when you’re being beat,” he laughed back. He leaned forward and thumbed her lower lip, which was jutting out. “You’re already being pouting.”

Nyima leaned back and drew her lip between her teeth, narrowing her eyes at him; he shouldn’t touch her. “Not,” she mumbled, blushing. She yanked on one of her braids, hard, to stop herself from snapping at him, and turned away, getting to her feet and scanning the area. Taran should not be teasing her, they both knew it. She was not Nyx. When the tribe bathed in the pools edging the jungle, Nyima could not join them, having to wait until everyone left before she could go in. At the gathering, she lingered on the edge of the crowd, finding no place. The first time she’d spoken to the two other C’Deney children around her age who had joined other tribes, but then Sen appeared and told the others to return to their people.

“ _You cannot being seeing with any C’Deney,” he said, shaking his head. “If anyone is being learning one of the largest tribes was having being killing by ifrit, it would for to being causing mass panic.”_

_Nyima drew her lower lip between her teeth and bit down on it as she nodded, tasting her own blood._

_Frejari announced at the start of the gathering that the C’Deney were cast out; no one said why. Many of the married off C’Deney looked at Frejari, shocked._ _Those of their new tribes looked at them with suspicion._

_A few who took children from Sen came to learn what he knew, and he told them something that halted their questions. They wanted to hand the children to the Crux, but Sen talked to them in his hut and when they reappeared they changed their minds._

 

Nyima frowned, tasting blood and realising she’d bitten into her lip again. She let it go and took a deep breath, trying to halt her racing thoughts. She would ask Sen not to partner her with Taran any longer; she understood he wanted her to stay with someone she trusted, but his behaviour wasn’t as brotherly as it should be. She sat back down again. “Nothing. Scouting is such dull work.”

“Scouts being saving lives,” Taran corrected. “A good scout will being warning when danger’s being coming and a bad one–” he stopped, questioning if he had been a bad scout for not warning the C’Deney about the ifrit. They wouldn’t have made it to the camp before being killed, he chose the best outcome to keep himself and Nyima alive. It was a tactically sound move.

“Yes,” she said simply, drawing him from his thoughts. “You don’t being having many more years doing this.”

Taran shrugged. “A few more still. I won’t being getting my first hunt until my eighteenth year.”

“I’m being wanting going hunting.” Nyima wanted to hurt something. She wanted to share how much she hurt.

“You’ve for to being getting more years to passing than I have,” he chuckled. “You’re being needing more patience, princess.”

Nyima frowned; he shouldn’t call her that. “I’m not being a princess.”

“You’re being my princess,” he teased, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her into his lap. “Mine frowning princess, who is being needing to laugh again.” He tickled her.

Nyima squirmed and squealed. “Taran, stop it!” She tried to get off him, but he had a good grip on her.

“Come on, brave warrior. You being wanting going hunting. You’re being having to get past me first!” She went to hit him and he grabbed her arms, toppling them both over into the snow. Taran pinned Nyima’s wrists by her head and rubbed noses with her. “I’m being missing hearing you laugh,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

“Nothing is being funny anymore.” She could feel Taran’s weight on her and the untapped strength that would grow as he aged, and she found her eyes couldn’t meet his. “We shouldn’t being alone together.”

“Why?” He knew why. It was the reason his father always sent a third along with them, but today he’d bribed their teammate. Sen raised him to love her and he saw no reason for that to change. They weren’t the same. They could still marry when they got older.

“Because,” she whispered. “You’re –” 

Taran’s lips pressed against hers.  
Nyima’s eyes widened. She knew what kissing was. She knew more that Taran shouldn’t kiss her. She should stop him. Push him away and tell him off. People of the same tribe didn‘t kiss. But, they weren’t the same tribe and the pain in her heart soothed a little with his touch. He was kind, brave and cared for her. Her father approved of him and she felt they could be together. She could feel his hair tickling her cheek and he smelled like musk and the chill wind. His kiss was chaste, but there was an undercurrent of want, and it was something Nyima didn’t fully understand.

“I’m not,” he said, shaking his head as he drew back. “And I’ll never for to being.”


	12. A man among monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleen finds an ally among the monstrous ifrit.

The fire spread through the building, driving everyone out. The pale-skinned women coughed and choked on foul fumes, chains clinking as they shuffled. Two were with child and this further slowed them, but they made it outside and sucked in lungfuls of hot, clean air.  
Caleen used the confusion to slip away, having broken her chains thanks to her kin. If she could just get to the jungle, a temptation in the near distance, then she might have a chance at reaching the frozen lands and finding help. She forced back bile rising in her throat at leaving the others to suffer ifrit, but she was the only one still strong enough to try. Her body rejected all the beasts’ seed — both a blessing and a curse — and even with the beatings and repeated rape she held onto a spark of defiance. She wouldn’t let everything be in vain.  
She diverted to a house as a group of beast-men hurried towards the burning building carrying buckets of water; a precious resource in the desert, but the women were more valuable. One of Caleen’s sisters sacrificed herself, giving the others a chance to escape. She’d hid her labour from the monsters until she was at the final point, screaming as divine flames consumed her flesh. The baby within lay unharmed in the burning ashes, but the bedding and everything around it caught fire. Until then, Caleen thought the story exaggerated; it turned out the ifrit were not fire wielders, as she weaved the ice and snow, but used potions and alchemy to create their flaming aura. This, though, was the truth. Women combusted giving birth.  
The second the captive tribeswomen crossed from the frozen lands to the jungle all their icy abilities became useless. It was worse in the deserts. Many suffered fainting spells, dehydration and exhaustion from the heat. This didn’t stop the ifrit raping them even if they were sick or unconscious. Caleen’s lip curled as she wondered how they survived four years of this hell, though many hadn’t. Slowly their numbers dwindled, leaving those behind to satisfy more ifrit. Caleen held tightly to the image of Cid in her mind whenever they abused her; her dreamer was a gentle lover with a tender touch that soothed her spirit. These monsters would not sully those memories, no matter how often, or how brutally, they tried.

Observing her surroundings, Caleen realised she was inside one of those places that made the ifrits’ armor. She squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and smiled slowly as she spotted rows of weapons. She slid a sword from the rack, noting how much heavier it was than the weapons she was used to.  
The sound of plodding footsteps drove her into a darkened corner, waiting to see which of the bastards would be the first to feel her wrath.

Ashkenaz came into the forge and sensed something was wrong; there was a presence. His eyes scanned left and right, but all he saw was dancing spots of light. He breathed deeply, picking up a faint tang of something that pinched his loins; a woman in his forge? He shuffled to a scrubbed, wooden counter and fumbled in a drawer, pulling out a small bottle of purple liquid, which he downed in one. He then took several deep breaths as he felt the instinctive interest in the feminine scent die. He needed to make more, which meant a trip to the jungle. Ashkenaz growled to himself at that, then raised his voice to address the woman. “You can stop hiding. I have no interest in your body.”  
When the woman didn’t appear, he shrugged. If one of a race of rapists told him he was safe, he wouldn’t believe it either. He went about his work, setting up to strike a new set of swords and leaving the woman to her hiding place. If she wanted respite from her horror, she chose the right spot. Ashkenaz would rather cut his own balls off than touch someone without their consent. What the ice women didn’t understand was they had no choice, their every conscious thought once they reached maturity was to survive and procreate. They didn’t have their own women, so took from the tribes. It didn’t excuse it, but it was the only way they knew.

“Ashkenaz.” A hurried-looking man hailed him.  
“What?” He hated being interrupted, although he hadn’t quite started work yet.  
“Did you see what happened?  
So the man came to gossip. Ashkenaz shook his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. “I was off delivering a sword.”  
“Those women,” the man spat. “One of them set the bunkhouse on fire. Looks like she was trying to kill everyone.”  
“Where is she now?” Ashkenaz knew.  
“No one knows. Slipped her chains and escaped.”  
“Maybe you should let her,” he replied. “What’s one less woman?”  
“How could you say that?” The man looked at him with horror. “You know we need to break the curse. Fewer women is less chances.”  
Ashkenaz snorted. “So why does the Sage, a man far past the point of virility, still take his turn?”  
“You know it is the curse that drives us.”  
“If there was another solution? A way to dull the lust, would you take it?” This was his secret. He found a way; the Sages disagreed. The curse took them inside and out.  
“There isn’t,” the man replied, proving Ashkenaz’s suspicions. “If you see the woman, turn her over to us.” He left, leaving Ashkenaz shaking his head.  
“Still think I’m out to get you?” he directed at the hidden woman. “Stay there as long as you please. I won’t bother you.” It was all her could do. He worked in silence for a while, but eventually realised the woman had shown herself, placing herself behind him. He felt the touch of a blade in his back and straightened up as best he could. “I won’t hurt you.”  
“Why not?” The woman’s voice was low and mellow, despite her anger.  
Ashkenaz slowly pointed to the counter and the drawer where he kept his medicine. “When I was a j’throk,” he began, pausing when the woman inhaled sharply at the word, “I slipped away from the watchers in time to see the warriors returning with some captives; Glory, they call them.” He shut his eyes. “They gathered around, ripped their clothes off and raped them, one after the other. The women screamed and fought. One broke free, but got pulled back.” Ashkenaz took a breath and swallowed back his disgust. “She looked at me. Hate clouded her eyes. She accused me of being a monster like them, speaking no words.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I was a boy. No one said why we did it. They don’t tell us until it’s too late, until the lust takes over and drives us half mad. I don‘t want to be that. So, I went to the ancient texts and removed that part of myself.” He snorted then. “It was a potion or cutting.” He chuckled ruefully. “I’m not brave enough for that.”  
“If you have this method,” Caleen said, after the Ifrit fell silent, “why do you not all use it? You stand idly by as beasts rape and murder my people.”  
“I tried,” Ashkenaz said, shrugging lopsidedly. “I told the Sages about the method, but they enjoy being monsters; they like fucking you.”  
Caleen’s teeth clenched so tight together it made her jaw ache. As much as she wanted to drive the sword in her hand through the beast before her, he was the only one she had met that wasn’t a monster. “I must reach the jungle,” she said. “Will you help me?”  
“Even if I could,” Ashkenaz sighed, “you would not get far without a suukma to guide you.”  
“suukma?” Caleen hadn’t expected that. “You use them to find your way through the jungle?”  
Ashkenaz nodded. “They follow the suukma’s path; there’s no other way.”  
This was bad news. Caleen had been expecting to travel from one side to the other once she reached the lush foliage. “Where can I find one?”  
He shook his head, a worried frown on his brow. “We catch families in the jungle and put the adults to work.” He snorted with disgust. “They’re kept like they keep you women. There’s a stable near the temple on the other side of the city, but you’ll never reach it.”

The “city”, as the Ifrit called it, wasn’t much more than a collection of stone buildings, many in ruins. The temple lay on top of a hill, but getting from the forge to there meant weaving through many streets. Few houses had people living in them, which meant the ifrit spread out further.  
Caleen wasn’t as swift as she had been before they took her. Her hips and legs ruined, her gait was that of an old woman. It was a miracle she’d reached the houses from the isolated bunkhouse and she was one in good health. She didn’t want to agree with the ifrit, her pride and fury made her want to deny she was weak and couldn’t do it, but she knew they‘d catch her and her kin’s death would be for nothing. “Could you bring me one?”  
Ashkenaz shook his head, but then paused. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “The Sage is at the temple. He always noses into everyone‘s business.” As the smith, Ashkenaz had no cause for a suukma, but no one had ever stopped him when he wanted one to show him where the herbs were for his potion.“ I need to stock up on ingredients and the keeper in the stable lets me take one of the suukma to forage for them.”  
Caleen wasn’t hopeful, but it seemed to be the only choice she had. “Very well,” she said. “I can hide here until then?”  
A grumble, then Ashkenaz nodded. Perhaps by helping the woman he could redeem his people and prove they weren’t all the monsters that Sylmy cursed them to be.

 

~*~*~

The sword she was holding lay at her feet as Nyima cradled her hand. The whole thing throbbed, but it was worst around her little finger. She uncurled it and winced at the pain; her finger was sticking out away from the others and was already turning dark as it swelled and bruised. She immediately crouched down and scooped snow over it, cooling the skin and numbing it slightly.

“You’re being dying now,” Jihl pointed out, standing over her and slapping the side of her blade into her open hand impatiently.  
“How fortunate for me we are being only training,” Nyima replied, taking her hand out and examining it again. “You are for to being having breaking my finger,” she said to Jihl.  
“It happens,” she shrugged. “You’re being thinking anyone will being stopping while you‘re being seeing to it? Being picking your sword up.”  
Nyima took a deep breath, held it, and let it out again. It didn’t do much for her annoyance at the girl, but at least it gave her a moment to find her center. She grabbed the sword in her left hand and swung it while Jihl was still unguarded, knocking her sword up into the air. Nyima rose to her feet and backhanded the girl with the flat side of the blade, putting more force behind it than she should have to send her sprawling into the snow. Nyima sheathed the sword and strode towards Sen’s hut.  
“Ah!” She bit back a cry of pain. It was fiddly work trying to bind her dominant hand with her left and it wasn’t the first time she had knocked the finger.  
“Nyima?” Taran entered the hut and grew concerned when he saw her struggling to hold the small, bone splint in place and tie a length of bandage with shaking fingers at the same time. “What’s being happening?”  
“An accident,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s being fine. Or it will for to being if I can being getting this thing on it.” After failing again to bind the injury she screwed her face up in anger and hurled the lot at the wall.  
Taran picked it up and took a seat next to her, holding his hand out for hers. “You don’t being having to do it by yourself,” he said.  
“I do,” she spat back, recalling the words of the tribe’s healer when he said he couldn’t touch her, even to help. “I am not being Nyx.”  
“You will for to being,” he said, causing her to look at him strangely. “Being giving me your hand and letting me fixing this.”  
Nyima did, holding her lower lip between her teeth as Taran worked. Once he splinted and bound her finger to the one next to it he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, making her blush, although it hurt.

Since their first kiss some two years before they had shared others when they could sneak time alone together. It always left Nyima feeling like her skin was two sizes too tight, but it was never enough. There was something there, something she wanted, amplified when Taran’s hands wormed their way beneath her clothes to fondle and touch her in ways she knew no man should until she married. Things always ended abruptly when she tried to touch him in return. He would groan in pain and pull away from her, leaving her with a sharp sting of rejection. Afterwards she always felt anger at herself for being weak to some physical sensation, but it was the only time anyone touched her. She hadn’t realised until it no longer happened, but the affection of her tribe was something she missed and made her heart ache in ways she couldn’t describe.

“We’ll for to being reaching the Crux by the end of tomorrow,” Taran spoke in a hush. “I could for to being sneaking into the Fayth’s hut and finding the blessing they give to –”  
“No, Taran.” Nyima shook her head. He’d brought up the blessing of the marriage rite before, but no matter how overtaken she was by the feelings he roused in her, she didn’t want to take that next step unless it was with her husband. She could never marry Taran, not now she had no tribe of her own. She already lived under the Chief’s protection, what problems might that cause if they found her and Taran doing things they shouldn’t? “Your father would be –”  
“I don’t being caring!” he whispered harshly. “I’m being loving with you, Nyima.”  
Nyima jerked in shock. “I – I’m being loving with you, too,” she said, after a moment. She’d quickly deliberated with herself whether to answer, but in the end, she decided a half-truth was better than silence; she loved Taran, just not how he loved her.  
Taran yanked her towards him, a huge grin on his face, ignorant of the pain he caused squeezing her fingers. He pressed ardent lips to hers, slowly urging her to lie down amongst the cushions and furs. His hands wandered far more quickly than before and Nyima felt a strange detachment this time. She didn‘t feel swept up as usual, and she pushed at him to back off.  
“I’ll being getting the Fayth’s blessing and we can for to being together,” he panted in her ear, fingers unlacing the tie at her waist and pulling open her trousers.  
“No.” She grabbed his hand and held on tightly, stopping him from touching her.  
Taran frowned. “I’m don’t being understanding,” he complained, moving back and sitting up. “You for to being saying you for to being loving me too.”  
Nyima sat up and wasted time gathering her thoughts by retying her trousers closed. “I’m being having no tribe,” she mumbled. “I live with the Chief of another tribe, but I am not of them. That on its own is strange enough. They should being sending all of us to the Crux when tribes are being broken. Mine and mine kin was being giving to other tribes. I don’t being knowing why, the Fayth are for to being agreeing then it for to being for a reason.” She looked away as Taran’s brows came together. “We should for to being kin and kin do not being doing this.”  
“I can for to being convincing my father to letting us being marrying,” he snapped. “He was for to being wanting us to.”  
“What?” Nyima frowned. “I wasn‘t for to being knowing this. Why didn‘t anyone being telling me?” Her temper rose at the thought of Sen deciding her future.  
“You was for to being a j’throk. Your parents aren’t never being telling you such a thing.”  
“My parents were being for to knowing?” The berating words of Caleen over casual she was with Taran came back to her. If they set the pair up as a lifelong match why had Caleen told her to be cautious with him? She stood up, needing time alone to work things out.  
“Nyima?” Taran reached for her, but she shook him off.  
“I...I’m being needing to thinking.” She left him sitting there and didn’t return until it was almost dark, Sen shooting her concerned looks when she appeared at the entrance to the hut, having not been present at when the tribe gathered to eat dinner.

“We was for to being worrying something is happening to you,” he said in a careful voice, picking up on her odd mood.  
“If something is, it isn‘t being much of a loss to a tribe that I am not being a part of,” Nyima replied tonelessly.  
“I would for to being letting your father down if you are dying. Your parents was for to being giving their lives to protecting and saving you. It is a gift to being holding above all others.”  
She blinked up at him. “I...didn’t being thinking of it like that,” she said at last. She still didn’t have a clear picture of all of the events when her tribe died, but in her nightmares she had seen enough to know Sen was right. Things happened in the tribe she wasn’t aware of, and she didn’t know how to feel about. One thing she was certain of was her parents had expectations and she would do her best to live up to them.  
Sen gave Taran a look, and he went to his room, leaving them alone. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the space across from him. He and Taran were playing a game before Nyima entered. She watched, curious, as Sen moved pieces around to set up a different game mid-progress. “This is being the game your father and I was for to being in the middle of,” he explained. “Will you being taking his place?”  
Nyima’s eyes pricked with tears and she nodded. “I am not being as good.”  
“Few are,” Sen smiled. “I know you are being filling with anger and sadness,” he said as they played. “You was having being suffering a greater loss than any, but it is being dishonoring Cid and Caleen if you are being throwing away your life.”  
“I’m being wanting to be a warrior like my mother,” Nyima replied, after moving a playing piece. “She was being so strong and brave. My father was being the kindest man, but her strength is something I am being hoping to have.” She wiped away the tear that rolled down her cheek.  
“You are being stronger than you think. You was for to being knocking out Jihl during training?”  
Nyima blinked and shook her head. “No. She was for to breaking my finger.” She gestured to the binding on her hand. “I was being angry.”“Your anger is being needing an outlet. Cid was being knowing how to harnessing your mother’s rage and being making her a better warrior. You are being needing to finding a way to do the same without their help.” Sen thought for a moment. “Two of mine are for to being perfect for training you.” The C’Deney’s training methods differed to the Nyx. They relied on strength and tactics. The latter used trickery and traps. Having blended his tribe with Cid‘s, he had some C’Deney women who taught that style. Nyima could learn from them and the tribe would get stronger. It was a poor substitute to Cid’s plans, but is the Nyx benefitted from Cid‘s plan it could count as a victory. Those were Sen‘s thoughts as he played Cid’s final game with Nyima, finding himself the loser at the end of it.

 

Lying in bed, Nyima tried to recall that last day. The blow to the head muddied her memories, but flashes of reality weaved into her nightmares. She knew she stood next to her kin against the ifrit and Goddess Nyima blessed her. She also knew they tried to run, and it tore apart the boy; an event she still mourned. She didn’t recall the start of the day, or anything before the ifrit appeared, but her reaction was to save the children. Her father’s screams were a distant echo in the back of her mind; she would know his voice anywhere, even filled with alien anguish. Her mother’s answering cry of rage sent chills down her spine. Caleen appeared seconds after, rushing towards the ifrit who held the severed limbs of the boy he’d killed. She body slammed into the ifrit, knocking him back.

“ _Run, mine babe,” she commanded Nyima, breathless  
_ “ _No, Ma. I can being helping!” Nyima went to clutch her mother, but Caleen shoved. She spun and struck ifrit with an ice club. “Foul beast!”_ _She struck ifrit again. “Nyima, run!”  
_ _Nyima didn’t move; she couldn’t leave her mother.  
_ _The ifrit bared its teeth in a horrid smile. “Give up and I might let your j’throk live.”  
_ _Nyima gasped as its eyes slid over her. She felt naked and violated.  
_ “ _No!” Caleen swung again and missed.  
_ _Ifrit ducked under and punched her in the gut.  
_ _Caleen gasped and dropped to her knees.  
_ _Ifrit came for Nyima.  
_ _Snow crunched under her feet as she stepped back. Her breath came in sharp pants. She tried to conjure her newly gained magic.  
_ _Ifrit bore down on her, grinning.  
_ _An ice club came down on its forearm. A sickening snap. It howled in fury as Caleen bared her teeth back._ “ _My babe!” she hissed the warning, raising the club again.  
_ _The Ifrit shoved with its uninjured hand and snatched hold of Nyima. “Dead babe,” it spat, hurling her into the cliff wall.  
_ _Pain exploded in Nyima‘s head and back, then her front as she fell to the ground._ _As she lost consciousness, she heard her mother screaming like a wounded animal._

 


	13. Proving grounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyima has come of age and takes the trial to become a hunter.   
> Over in the deserts Caleen tries to get back to her people and winds up captured again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features mentions of rape.

Frejari nodded to the acolyte beside her. The younger woman stepped forward and banged the staff in her hand against the animal-skin drum next to her, calling for silence.

“Tribes, it is being the time for those among you to stepping forward and proving their worth on the hunting grounds.”

The scouts who reached maturity stepped forward: thirty.

Frejari eyed the group, lingering on a familiar-looking girl of the Nyx tribe. Her gaze went to Sen, positioned in front of his tribe. He looked sideways at Nyima, then away. Frejari felt her blood chill; she assumed all the C’Deney were dead. How had she never noticed Cid’s offspring among the Nyx in the six years between that event and this?

With effort, she smoothed her features to serenity and said in a loud tremor, “You are being alone in this hunt. It is you and your prey. If you are for to being failing, and returning, you will for to being waiting until the next gathering to proving yourselves. If you for to being coming across another hunter, you will not being aiding them. It is being you against the elements and the beast. Now, go, scouts of the tribes, and for to being returning proud warriors!”

The pochikas filed out, heading towards the jungle to find something to kill and prove they had useful skills to assist their tribes.

Frejari held her place long enough to ensure the proper respect for the ritual, then hurried back to the Fayth’s hut and rifled through scrolls. The moment her fingers closed around it there was a knock on the edge of the outer door frame.

“My Lady, Chief Sen is for to being wishing to speaking with you.”

“He may being entering,” Frejari replied, stowing the scroll in a safe spot for the moment. “You, offspring of an Ifrit!” she hissed the moment they were alone. “You was being telling me they were all being dead!”

“Anyone that mattered is,” Sen replied, taking the logical approach. It wasn’t a difficult task keeping the girl to the edges of the gathering and away from Frejari. The Fayth rarely attended or even looked directly people. If Nyima hadn’t stepped forward, against his express order, then Frejari wouldn’t know the girl lived. But, Nyima was desperate to test her growing skills and prove herself. She had become a formidable fighter, thanks to the senior warriors taking on training her. Hunting was the next, logical step and would further temper the simmering rage Sen saw in her.

“Do you being thinking I would not being recognising a babe I birthed? One who is being the image of her parents?” Frejari’s voice held a dangerous edge and Sen cautioned himself to be wary. Frejari tried to kill his son once before, though it would be a harder task to kill an adult. She could interfere with Nyima still, or even cast the whole tribe out.

“She is being no threat to you,” he replied. “She is being alive these six years and doing nothing to concerning you. She is being a child; leave her,” he added in a pleading tone. He failed the C’Deney, failed his friend, but if he could keep Nyima safe, she would be his redemption.

The Fayth tilted her head, a few wisps of silver hair escaping the tight knot. “So you are being having no plans to carry out the union between your son and her?” When Sen shook his head, she snorted. “I do not believing you. That girl is being almost of age—will be if she is being succeeding on her hunt. What will you being doing with her then? It will be many years before she is being mature enough to marry. She is not being of your tribe and has no other. Will you being leaving her with the Crux?”

Sen would rather kill her himself than leave her with them. It would be kinder than whatever Frejari planned. “She’s being practically my daughter already,” he said, though he almost choked on the title. “My tribe is for to being accepting her because of old ties with the C’Deney; she is being my daughter and their sister,” he said. “My son is being thinking of her like a sister,” he added, hoping his face didn’t betray the lie. He’d learned Taran wanted to bed Nyima, catching his son as he tried to enter the Fayth’s hut. 

“ _You_ was _for to being telling me we are marrying!” he’d argued after being pulled some distance from the hut. “You_ was _being telling me to love her! Our tribes would for to being one and I would for to being leading them with her beside me! Being telling me that’s not what you was being saying!”_  
 _Sen couldn’t deny it; those were his exact words. ”You are being knowing the Fayth’s punishment for being stealing their secrets.” He grabbed Taran‘s arm and held on tight. “I will not for to being losing you because you are being wanting to mating with a girl.” He tugged him closer. “You are being knowing it isn‘t right to mating your sister.”  
_ “ _Do you being knowing how hard it’s being having her living in our hut?” Taran glared at his father. “All those things you was being telling me, they circling in my head, and then there she is and she’s being beautiful and—” he stopped and grimaced, as if in pain, “–you are being expecting me to accepting her being there for years before you and the Fayth are being saying I’ve done my part for the tribe and can being marrying? I’d rather being taking her and leaving!” He pulled away and stalked off, leaving Sen staring after him with stunned shock._

In a sudden change of tact, Frejari dismissed Sen with no more words spoken about Nyima, declaring she would, “Speak with the Goddess on the matter.”

It was more than he could hope for. Surely they would stay Frejari’s hand; Nyima’s name came from one. He would figure out something to fix the problem he caused after the tribe left the Crux.

Once Sen left, Frejari returned to the scroll. Carefully unfurling the cracked parchment, she peered at the ancient writing, picking apart the words with the skill of someone semi-literate. She had the ingredients and it was an easy recipe. She walked into the back room of the hut and passed the other eight Fayth who were all in various stages of communion with Sylmy. They were useless until they returned from the heights. Their condition could have been better. Frejari knew they all took too many of the pellets, and it showed in their appearance. Several had vomit spattered down their robes and their nutrition suffered when the choice was to eat or commune with a Goddess. Frejari, too, would rather be with the Goddess, but she needed to keep control, and never took as many peyote pellets as the others. The Chief of the Crux was all but useless thanks to the sleeping moss she added to his peat, which is how she liked things. The Crux had been her tribe for over one hundred years and if anyone was fit to lead the people of v’neketyh, it was her. “Not Cid. Not Ela. No one. They are being  _my_ people and I will for to being ruling them as the will of Sylmy orders. I will for to being cleansing the world of evil and she will for to being restoring it to the paradise it once was.” Frejari muttered to herself as she worked, putting together the recipe in the scroll until the shallow, bone bowl filled with a thick, green goo. She smiled as she tilted it this way and that, watching it ooze around the sides. “No needing to being bothering the Goddess with this trifle,” she mused, smiling. “The C’Deney are for to being fated to die and I shall being the instrument to deliver them.”

 

~*~*~

 

Nyima had a pack over one shoulder filled with supplies and wore a small smile as she walked carefully among the foliage. If Sen knew how old she was, he would have voiced stronger arguments for her not going. Truthfully, Nyima was unsure how old she was, as well. It was a parent’s duty to track the number of days a child lived, but she knew she was born in the season of Nyima, when the weather cooled. The chance to join the ranks of hunters was too great a temptation to resist. She didn’t just want it; she _needed_ it. 

The second she placed a foot on the bed of greenery, the ice blade in her hand melted. Taran warned her it would happen, that the Goddess had no hold among the borderlands, but Nyima was overconfident in her abilities. Sen told her too often her skills were some of the best in the tribe. She was strong and agile, with a will no one could overcome. She thought it would be enough. She would hold her blade through the jungle and everyone would know her as the first hunter to carry an ice blade in the jungle. She was wrong, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth. _I’m being fooling mineself so much._ Fortunately, she had a bone-blade, along with trapper gear and a knife.

The tribes expected the pochikas taking part in the hunts to stay out several days until the first arrived back, either with a kill or without. There was also the risk of running into ifrit. The rule in that case was: run.

They hunted and there were things that hunted them. _I’ll being proving mineself no matter how many hardships there is being._

Two days later and Nyima sat in a tree, tapping the blade of her knife against her boot, bored out of her mind. She’d set up a small camp and surrounded it with traps, narrowly avoiding springing an old one left by someone else. She sat with her back to the trunk, one leg drawn up and the other hanging, chewing on a piece of dried squid. She’d mentally mapped out the local area and chosen a spot that had a lot of beast footprints, but so far all she’d seen were smaller creatures that wouldn’t impress a j’throk, let alone prove to the Chief and the Fayth she was a worthy warrior.

While she waited for something to happen by, she made plans. After she became a hunter, she would hone her skills and become the strongest warrior in the Nyx tribe. Once she grew strong enough, she would find the desert. She would taunt the ifrit and trick them into following her back to the icy lands on the other side. Once there, she would take great pleasure in spearing every single one of them! Sen had told her to find an outlet for her rage and she had; she would wipe out the ifrit. She would avenge her tribe’s senseless deaths and do a service to the others, too. She dedicated two years of her life, with little respite. Only the occasional distraction from Taran altered her daily routine of: rise, eat, train, eat, rest.

Nyima was certain she could do it. Everyone told her how strong she was, how brave. She had her mother’s will and her father’s sound judgement and, once she reached the desert and saw what she had to work with, she would come up with the perfect plan to make the ifrit suffer. But first, the bothersome exercise of getting her first hunt done. Nyima stilled her twitching fingers, silencing the tap of the blade; there was a scent in the air she didn’t recognise. _What is being that?_ She shifted, putting all her weight on her leg and rising, becoming alert. She turned, scanning the tree line for the source of the smell and spying a wavering plume of smoke some twenty feet away from her perch. Looking down, she squinted and twisted her head, trying to peer through the fat palm leaf blocking her view of whatever made the smell. She assumed some kind of small mammal using scent to drive off predators.

 _Does that being meaning a predator is nearby?_ Nyima’s gaze returned to the tree line, searching for something more lethal than a smelly fur ball. Narrowing her eyes, she peered through leaves towards a small rock outcropping which she used as a location marker. A pair of feline eyes stared back, locking gazes with her. _A reocyl._ A large, feline beast, twelve feet in length. With a larger front half that tapered down to smaller hind quarters, the animal had both speed and force. On either cheek long whips of muscle and nerves stood out, which carried a shock electrocuting its prey. The whiskers were dexterous; with a quick jerk of its head, the reocyl could strike a foe with the bulbed end, knocking them out.

It was not a thing one took on alone, but Nyima took it was a sign from the Goddess Nyima if she wanted to prove herself, then here was her challenge. _Reocyl: attacking from behind or a distance._ Her archery skill lacked compared to her spear fighting. However, she had no magic to conjure spears. _I can for to being maybe trapping it. Are reocyl smart?_ She couldn‘t remember.

There was no time to linger and second guess herself; she clambered down from the tree. Once on the ground the smell from the furry creature was stronger. Nyima coughed and covered her mouth and nose. She couldn’t see the reocyl anymore. She knew where it was and how far before she needed to circle around.

Carefully pushing aside the leaves Nyima fought her own gag reflex as she walked, the smell from whatever it was clung. She reached the rock formation and went into a crouch to creep up behind the reocyl.

She paused, listening for the beast. She heard the faintest rhythm of the animal breathing and inched forward until it came into view. It was lying down. Her grip felt slick around her knife hilt as she drew it, so she switched hands, wiping her sweaty palm on her leg before swapping back over. Her ears strained to hear the reocyl’s breaths, matching her own to its rhythm, though her heart thudded hard in her chest. She swallowed and got the taste of animal stink. Her throat seized. She fought the cough. _Can‘t. The reocyl._  It left her mouth in a soundless puff. 

The reocyl was up in a single, fluid movement. It turned. A massive paw swiped.   
Nyima put both arms up. “Ahh!“ It knocked her sideways. Claws hooked into her sleeves, ripping the coarse hide and scratching flesh. Momentum carrying her, she was loose again and tumbling out of reach. Rocks and stones dug in. She rolled from to a stop, breathless. She tried to inhale. Short bursts that weren‘t enough. Spots danced before her eyes. Her limbs felt stiff, unresponsive.

The reocyl’s landing thud came a few feet away. It stalked. Prowled. A low growl and crackle.  
Nyima sucked in air and sat up. She shuffled out of reach swinging her knife with wild abandon.   
The reocyl purred. It slapped her hand, claws sheathed. It was playing with her. Toying with its kill.   
Nyima’s back pressed against the side of the rock, sagging into a gap. She dropped, gasping. As she rebounded against the walls, she heard a thud from the reocyl as it pounced and struck the rock. 

 

~*~*~

 

Vasuman arched his back as he spilled his seed, letting out a satisfied groan. He bowed his head, nipping the breast of the silent woman beneath him. “You are a good fuck, my love,” he said, meeting hate-filled eyes.

“I am being going to killing you,” Caleen promised, not for the first time.

Vasuman laughed and slapped her flank, making her leg jerk as he climbed off. “I would like to see that,” he mocked, picking up his clothes and tugging them on. “But, some other time. I go to collect Glory.”

Caleen bared her teeth at this, clenching them to stop from screaming. She yanked at the chains securing her to the bed and Vasuman smirked.

“Ashkenaz made them, so you won’t be getting out.”

The blacksmith was true to his word and tried to help Caleen by getting a suukma from the stables, but Ignis waylaid him, talking up a strange interest in the possibility of making accessories to withstand the cold.

“ _I have come across a text that lists the method for making an elemental resistance band; a frost bangle,” he explained. “With it, our men could bear the frozen lands and forge deep into the territory. We may find the key to undoing this curse on their side.”_

Ashkenaz doubted any search would focus on the curse. As he’d said to Caleen: his people liked fucking hers. The idea a remedy or redemption existed was a shiny coin held up to the light: a distraction until they accepted the truth and gave in to their baser urges. Charms wouldn‘t work on Ashkenaz.

He’d spent so long with the Sage, Caleen came looking for him. He’d expressly told her to stay put, warned her of the danger and she still thought she was an invincible warrior. She put up a good fight, killing two of her attackers and wounding a third, but they took her sword and her too, until she was barely more than a lump of flesh. Ashkenaz could do nothing to stop them though he tried.

Vasuman happened by and decided he wanted her for his own. Seeing her trying to fight lit up a dark desire and from that day to the current one she was chained to his bed. Whenever he left he left the door open and men paraded in to use her like a tissue.

Once Vasuman left, Caleen stared up at the ceiling and tried to hold onto the cold rage that was dying inside her. Six years as a slave and her only attempt at escape was a dismal failure. Worse, she let down her sisters. The pregnant pair were long dead. At least they had freedom of a sort. The others would join them soon, along with any new captives the beasts brought back. Caleen remained. Unable to die, unwilling to die. She had a purpose. She would kill Vasuman and find her daughter. She knew in her bones Nyima lived. She wouldn‘t give up until she saw her again.

As the first in a succession of monsters came into the room Caleen struggled against her chains and fought her attackers with everything she had. “I will not being dying in this place!” she spat as a hairy monster mounted her. “I will not being dying!”


	14. Wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been two years since Nyima's disaster of an initiation and she's now a full hunter for the Nyx. A small herd of lightning magic imbued beasts creates an excitement among the Nyx, as well as throwing up old rivalries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Unhealthy relationship and sexual coercion.

Nyima narrowed her eyes at the target. At her sides, her hands itched to attack, but she waited, lining up her shot. Her muscles tensed and, with a sweep of one arm, a dozen spears of ice shot up from the snow, obliterating the row of practice dummies.

“Hmmph,” Anxie muttered, rolling her eyes and stomping off.

“You is being saying she can’t being doing it!” Liara yelled at her departing back.

“No mattering, Liara,” Nyima said, rubbing her hands together before putting her gloves back on. She was well used to Anxie by now an acknowledgement of her skills. Anxie also ice weaved, but lacked talent and imagination. Anxie’s skill lay in tactics and trapping, although knowing this didn’t make her happy.

“She is being saying you can’t being doing it,” Liara insisted, crossing her arms. “And she is being saying other things, too.”

“No mattering,” Nyima repeated with heavier emphasis. “Anxie can being saying whatever she’s liking.” No words could be worse than the pain buried deep inside; the knot in her chest that never came undone. She’d learned to cover it with whatever small blessings she could find: the sweet affection of the j’throk, babes too young to know she wasn’t one of them and ran to her for stories and cuddles as they did everyone else; her skills, which grew stronger every day; the times when she and Sen played; when she and Taran found time alone, though she felt a lingering sense of guilt and shame.

“You’re being a better warrior than she is and you’re being younger,” Liara continued. “Would you being training with me?”

Nyima blinked; no one ever asked her this before. It was a full year since her success at the hunt after the previous year’s failure. Sen claimed her as a daughter of the Nyx once she confirmed her first kill. She felt uneasy and like a traitor to her tribe because of it. So much time passed from the Nyx taking her in until now that they found it difficult to change the way they thought of her: an outsider. She didn’t blame them. She made herself one, too. No matter what they weren’t family.

“Will you?” Liara asked again, taking Nyima’s wrist and pulling.

“Yes, I will being liking that,” she replied, finding a smile forming at the thought. “You’re being knowing I cannot being teaching you magic.”

“I’m being knowing.” Liara wasn’t blessed, which was a blessing for it meant she hadn’t faced death. “I’m being wanting you to teaching me to being like the ice.”

Nyima opened her mouth to ask what she meant, but Liara was called away. She stared after her with a puzzled look, mouthing the last words in a question.

The passing information from two warriors distracted her and set her feet in motion, rushing to find Sen.

 

“Is it truthful?” Nyima slid to a halt in front of Sen, narrowly avoiding a collision. Breathless, she repeated her question, adding, “Is there being a dusrpraa herd up on the ridge?” Her blue eyes shone with anticipation. This was the first proper beast the tribe came across since diverting from their normal course hugging the borderlands.

“You are being quick, daughter,” Sen replied. “I’m being sending word out to gathering the hunters just now.”

Nyima waited, vibrating from holding back the question she really wanted to ask.

“You are being among their number.”

She sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly. “Thanking you,” she said in a calm voice.

“You’re being understanding it is Anxie’s decision which team you are being on?”

Nyima nodded, the beads in her dark braids clicking together. She withheld her surprise that inexperienced Anxie would lead. A tactician in name didn’t make one in practice. Nyima’s hopes of a spot on a team withered.

Sen smiled, ignorant of Nyima’s inner thoughts and seeing only the calm demeanour. “Off you’re being going, then.”

“I’m being wanting to being on the shocking team!”

“You? Being forgetting it! You couldn’t being scaring a _reocyl cub_!”

“You’re being about as much good as a walking rock!”

“Shut up!” Anxie’s voice cut across the squabbling and she rubbed her temple with irritation. “If we don’t being doing this quickly, the herd will being moving on and we’ll all being looking like fools!” She glared as Nyima approached. “What do you being wanting?”

“Sen is being saying I’m to being joining the hunting,” she replied in a toneless voice. She wasn’t hopeful of anything useful to do.

Anxie’s lips twisted with malicious amusement. “You can being greasing up the shocking team.”

She expected this and nodded. Anxie’s envy would have her ruin the hunt than choose someone who had an education in hunting beasts.

“We being drawing sticks.” Anxie returned to the problem at hand, gesturing for one of the hovering youths to bring her a bundle.

“Are being serious?” Sorren, a large muscular warrior with a tattooed left arm, spoke up from the rear of the group. “What’s being next, a vote?”

There was a smattering of laughter. A hunt leader needed to take decisive action. Anxie wasted precious time dithering.

“Dusrpraa hunting is being more than strength,” Anxie replied in a cold voice. She snatched up the bundle of sticks, startling the girl so much she snapped several. “Stupid little –”

“It doesn’t being mattering, Liara,” Taran said, appearing and gesturing for her to escape. “Anxie, father is being reconsidering letting you for to being leading this hunting. Everyone should for to being leaving by now.”

Anxie’s face twisted. “I’m being doing my best. We should have being sticking to the borders and our own ways, not being taking on C’Deney fancies!” She glared at Nyima, seeming to put all the blame on her, though she was only one voice among four who helped convince Sen try a different approach.

Annoyed and wanting to get going, Nyima decided a change of subject was in order before temptation to hit Anxie grew too strong. She counted up those taking part and ignored Anxie’s eyes narrowing at her impertinence. “There are being three dusrpraa, so we are for to being needing three teams of three shockers. That’s being leaving two spear, four archer, a club and axe.”

“Not including yourself?” Anxie snarled.

“I’m being greasing,” Nyima replied in an even voice.

“Well, that’s being wasteful!” Taran barked, either oblivious to the tension or trying to provoke Anxie on purpose. “You three.” He pointed at the two women and one man. “One team. You three, another. Nyima, Anxie and I will for to being the third shocking team. The rest, being organizing yourselves into one weapon and one archer. There, done,” he sighed, shaking his head at Anxie. “If we’re being lucky, they’ll still being where the scouts being seeing them. Getting the oldest pochikas to bringing the grease and supplies.”

 

“You must for to being so happy your _brother_ being stepping in to putting you in a place of honor,” Anxie sniped, as the hunters cleared out.

“No,” Nyima replied, using one hand to twist her hair up and secure it out of the way; it would be better cut off, since the stink from the floofkyd grease clung long after they washed it off and many warriors ended up shaving their heads anyway to get rid of the smell. “Sen is being choosing you to leading, but if Taran isn’t being stepping in, we wouldn’t being having anything to hunt. What mine role is being doesn’t mattering, as long as we’re being bringing something back.” Underneath the bland tone Nyima was seething at Anxie’s words, but learned there was little point challenging her. Anxie didn’t fight fair and called her sisters to help whenever she was losing.

“I’ve never being liking you,” Anxie sneered.

“Same,” Nyima replied, letting a flash of her irritation show, “but I wouldn’t being letting personal grudges affecting what the rest of the tribe is being eating.” She also wouldn’t risk a chance to eat something that wasn’t fish, but that was neither here nor there.

Once the hunters reached the location, the shock teams stripped down and greased up, slathering on a layer of reduced floofkyd fat. The giant, fluffy lizards lived underground near water sources. Their natural insulation protected the tribes from the cold and the shocking power of the dusrpraa. It was the shock teams job to force dusrpraa to use its ability until exhausted. Then the archers would step in and blind it. Finally, the heavy hitters would put it out of its misery. dusrpraa were useful from their skin down to their bones and it was rare to find a small group isolated from a larger herd like this; the tribe wouldn’t waste the opportunity. Through trial and error, hunters learned not to wear anything that snagged on the dusrpraa’s massive six foot tusks and that stab wounds filled with animal fibres festered and resulted in death. Bare skin coated in a thick layer of floofkyd fat gave them the best odds for success. Women made the perfect distraction: the men threw them up onto the dusrpraa’s back and they clung on while it thrashed. The beast would try to shock them with magic, buck them off and then the women would be up and on it again. Ice was ineffective against the thickened hide—it could withstand several shocks so a few shards of ice made no difference to them. Only when they were completely drained of magic and strength could those with heavy weapons beat its skull in.

 

Taran tossed Anxie up onto the back of a dusrpraa, diving to the left when the animal shot a bolt of lightning at him. The dusrpraa tossed its head, flinging Anxie from side to side while she clung on for dear life. “Die! Die!” The dusrpraa snapped its head to the right, then left, flicking Anxie off like a bogie. She smacked into the ground and rolled.

Taran darted behind the dusrpraa and shouted, “You live?”

Anxie flapped her hand at him, chest heaving.

“Good,” he muttered, grabbing Nyima up. “Being careful,” he said, timing his throw. The powerful muscles in his arms and shoulders tensing with effort, then he launched her.

Nyima slammed into the dusrpraa’s muscled side and grunted, snatching handfuls of fur and pulling herself up onto its back. It bucked, and she screamed, clinging tight. A sharp humming sounded from deep inside the dusrpraa. Her hair stood on end and she drew in a sharp breath at the odd, buzzing sensation that ran up her spine and through her body. Her muscles went weak, fingers lax. Now she understood why no one could hold on for long. She thanked the layer of fat insulating her from the worst of the shock.

An arrow struck the beast’s hide, and it roared and tossed its head, annoyed. Nyima yanked her leg up and lost her grip. “Ah!” She slid sideways. Gritting her teeth, she climbed back on. The only vulnerable part was the eyes. The archers were for luring or annoying. Nyima leant over and yanked the arrow out. She bounced up and down as the dusrpraa bucked. “Uh!” She took several short breaths and leant to the side. The animal’s eye rolled back to look at her as she plunged the arrow in. The bellow in her ears didn’t mask the pop where she burst its eyeball. An ooze of fluid leaked over her fingers, making them slick. Twisting her grip, Nyima drove the arrow in harder, trying to puncture the dusrpraa’s brain.

It tossed its head, throwing her off. _Fail._ She landed with a grunt and signalled Gherol to hit it on its blind side.

The warrior yelled and charged, raising his club and slamming it down on the dusrpraa’s flank. It sent the other two into a spin, shooting off lightning bolts in all directions. Animal groans and thumping hooves accompanied the warriors’ yells as they closed in on the small herd.

 

~*~*~

 

Laughter rang out through the central hut as the tribe feasted on dusrpraa meat and the hunters told the tale of their triumph. Preserving the rest of the meat would provide further meals as the tribe travelled north; their success proving they could handle hardier beasts than those found near the borders. The bones, hide and other parts not fit for eating were already with the crafters for turning into tradable items.

The shock teams sat together on one side of the tent, with flaps drawn up to air out the stink they’d brought with them. Sorren’s voice rang out as he recounted the tale of the hunt for the rest of the tribe. He had a lyrical tone perfect for the role of Storyteller when he wasn’t out with the warriors. Beside him sat his wife, an adoring look on her face and uncaring of pungent, floofkyd smell.

“Bajee being getting a frizzle–” he paused to laugh at a dazed woman with frizzy hair “–and Geah is being getting a tossing–” this woman ducked her head and blushed. “Now, I’m being thinking we’re over and these beasts is being running. Then this one–” he slapped Nyima on the back “–running over and being saying ‘throw me’. That’s what I’m being doing, and she’s being hanging on and we’re being dodging the shocking and the next thing we’re being seeing is Anxie knocking Taran over and the archers shooting Dalia.”

“He did not for to being ‘knocking me over’, Sorren,” Anxie said sourly. Her sulking fit continued on the walk back from the hunt, through clean up and now over the evening meal. She sneered at Nyima and Taran, whispering like they were each other’s seha. She frowned at their closeness; it wasn’t right.

“We’re getting them!” Gherol crowed, drawing everyone’s attention. He hefted a giant club in the air and waggled it around. “One strayful arrow and a couple of crispy warriors is being a good day’s hunting!”

Sen smiled and gestured for everyone to quiet. “Who is being our warrior of the hunt?”

The rest of the tribe looked about, curious. Those of hunter tribes understood the tradition and glanced at Nyima as the source.

“Our warrior of the hunt –”

Another cheer went up as Gherol waved his club again.

Sen chuckled and shook his head. “Not so. Without her keenful eyes there would not being a hunt for us. Haruta is our warrior of the hunt!”

The teenager’s eyebrows went up in surprise. She nodded and bowed her head in gratitude.

Sen nodded and continued. “We shall also being honoring for his tactical skill, Taran.”

Anxie wore a heavy scowl as others cheered for Taran.

“And for his strength we’re being honoring, Sorren.”

Gherol howled across the room, “I’ll being having it next time, hearing me!”

“Even the deaf can being hearing you, Gherol!” Sorren barked with a laugh.

Nyima focused on her food, trying to hide her disappointment; she wasn’t truly a Nyx, so any honors were beyond her reach. She wasn’t one of them, but stayed with them. She had a place that was no place.

“You for to being knowing he couldn’t being honoring you,” Taran whispered, breath tickling her ear.

Nyima shrugged. “We’re being having meat, that’s all that’s mattering.” If she couldn’t will herself to not care, then she could at least pretend so Taran wouldn’t worry.

“You’re being fearless today,” Taran continued, speaking in a low voice. “When I was for to being seeing Sorren throwing you the dusrpraa being nearly spearing me, I couldn’t for to being taking mine eyes off you.”

She glanced sideways at him and raised a brow at the look on his face. It made her uneasy. He was speaking of love play when he should focus on hunting. They also risked someone hearing them if they carried on the way they were. “Sen –”

“I’m being knowing.” Taran sat back and scowled at his father, who frowned in return. “If you was being living with another tribe instead of us, we could for to being marry.”

Nyima shrugged. She couldn’t judge. “He was for to being honouring my father.”

Taran snorted and pushed a rough hand through his dark, braided hair. “He’s being ruining things,” he said, bitterly.

She didn’t know what to say, so lay her hand on his brawny forearm for a moment in comfort. Taran looked at her and leaned closer, jerking back when Sen’s voice intruded.

“Brothers, sisters, I’m being having one more honor to bestowing this night!”

The look Taran gave his father concerned Nyima. She worried she was driving a wedge between a father and son. _Mine parents wouldn’t being wanting this. I must being more grateful and acting like a daughter._

“Nyima.” Sen gestured toward her. The sleeve of his shirt edged back exposing the final lines of his marriage tattoo, now well faded. “Daughter of Cid. A brother, being not of blood, but love. We must being honouring the great links between us. We must being acknowledging this with new law.”

 _New law?_ Nyima assumed the Fayth alone could do that. Brows furrowing with curiosity she got up and went to stand next to Sen, noting Taran’s clenched fists as she left his side.

“Nyima uvdra C’Deney, as this day is being passing into memory, so does your name. You shall being Nyima uv Nyx and a daughter true. Our tribe is being your tribe and our ways are being yours.” There was no question in Sen’s words. He was telling the tribe, telling her, that she was one of them at last.

 _What? No. I don’t being wanting this. I’m being loving with mine family. You can’t being taking mine tribe!_ She swallowed back the words. She couldn’t argue. If she did, they would cast her out.

Sen’s intention was clear. Nyima could accept the Nyx or go into exile. He was telling her he knew what she was doing with Taran and disapproved. _Is this being the only choice?_ It was no choice. _Sudran, is this being what I’m to do?_ Sen’s hand touched her head, and she blinked. He took her silence as acceptance. Nyima opened her mouth, but Sen was quicker.

“Now, mine tribe, let us being having feasting and dancing! Tonight is being a night of triumph!”

Nyima ducked and headed back to her place, but found the spot next to her empty. Taran left.

 

~*~*~

 

Sen went looking for his son the moment he noticed him gone, hoping to find him before Nyima. After his announcement he saw a look on Taran’s face that said he would snatch up Nyima and steal away into the night rather than obey the tribe’s laws. “You cannot being with her. You’re not being knowing what will for to being happening if you’re marrying her!” He kept his voice low and urgent, echoes of Frejari’s threats ringing in his ears.

“You’re being doing everything to keeping us apart!” Taran swung at Sen, who ducked and caught his arm.

“My son! You must for to being listening! It’s being for your own good!” He had to make Taran understand. Being with Nyima was dangerous for all their lives. He wouldn’t endanger the whole tribe for one woman. If it came to it, he’d kill her and hope Frejari forgave him for hiding her all this time.

“You’re being making me miserable is being for mine own good?!” Taran struggled in his father’s grasp. Sen had a good forty years behind him before Taran’s birth, but while his warrior days were over he had more than enough strength to teach his son a lesson.

“You’re being too young,” Sen started, choosing the most sensible argument to refuse them as a couple. “The Fayth will for to not being blessing you and by the time they are your mind is being breaking with madness, like the ifrit.” He pulled Taran close and looked him in the eye. “You are for to being wishing to taking Nyima as the ifrit?”

Taran stilled and looked sick. He shook his head.

Sen hated that he played on his son’s guilt. Taran told him what happened the day the C’Deney died and how he earned the burn scars on his back. The fear of ifrit was very real for him still.

“Being denying the marrying rite is denying the Goddess,” Taran said at last, though his voice was weak.

Sen shook his head. He put his hands on Taran’s shoulders and said, “Mine son, you cannot being marrying her. If your blood is being burning too young, then I’ll being finding you a wife. There are tribes we can being choosing from, but it cannot being Nyima.”

“Why not?” Taran spat, shaking Sen off. “I’m being wanting her. You’re being telling me we’ll being marrying and I should for to being wanting her. Now, you’re being telling me I can’t, but she’s always being right there. I hurt.” He thumped his chest. “I’ll for to being going to the Fayth and telling them we’re being marrying. They’ll being blessing us and–”

“I’ll being telling her.” Taran stopped and Sen cringed at the hateful look thrown at him. He repeated the phrase, adding, “You’re being thinking she won’t being caring? Are you being thinking she isn’t minding that you’re saying her family aren’t important?”

“You’re being telling her that and she’ll being leaving,” Taran replied in a voice loaded with loathing. Nyima’s memories of her tribe’s death were hazy, but the conversation between the two of them never returned, even in her dreams. He’d told her the scars on his back were from trying to save them. She thought he was a hero. She was grateful. She let him touch her because of it. He never corrected her.

Sen looked regretful, but immovable. “Don’t being giving me a reason to telling her.” He owed Cid and Caleen to care for their daughter. It was his punishment for betraying them. With Frejari wanting to erase the last of the tribe, it was safer for Nyima to become a Nyx and the C’Deney bred out when she married. If Taran married her Frejari could assume Sen was carrying out Cid’s plan. He hadn’t risked everything for Frejari to wipe them out, too. “I am being chief and you are doing as I’m saying.” That was his final word on the matter.

Taran glared. His mouth drew into a thin line and he balled his fists. “As mine chief is being wanting,” he muttered, turning and stomping off, kicking up snow.

Sen put a hand to his rapid heartbeat and willed it to slow. “Mine son, when you’re being older you’re understanding what I’m being doing.”

 

~*~*~

 

Nyima walked through the darkened living area of Sen’s hut and headed to her room at the rear. Taran never reappeared in the main tent, but she’d been plenty occupied by her new brothers and sisters wanting to chat. She needed to refill her water cup many times when her throat grew parched. Anxie was civil, if not warm, now Nyima was a sister by law. There would be no more fights between them with her calling on her sisters; they were Nyima’s now, too.

She pushed up the flap of animal skin guarding her doorway and smothered a yawn with her other hand. It was far later than she intended to go to bed. They tribe were up early to move camp in the morning, but the older warriors kept calling for her to stay and play games. The elders reminded her of Cid and she couldn’t say no.

 _Did you being seeing me today? Am I being making you both proud?_ Tears pricked her eyes, and she wiped them away. _Don’t being thinking about it. They are being gone. I must being living for today._ She stripped down her outer wear and put on bedclothes. It wasn’t until she pulled the furs up over herself that she realised someone else was there. “Taran?” She bolted up and scooted to the far side of the bed. “Being getting out of mine room!” she hissed, trying to keep calm. Taran chuckled, his breath filled with a pungent odour she didn’t recognise.

“I’m being thinking we can...we can being celebrating,” he slurred, tipping towards her. “You’re being mine sister. Best sister. Best friend sister. That’s being going being to being fun.”

“No.” He wasn’t making any sense and some of his suggestions made her want to vomit. “Being getting out so I can being going to sleep.”

Taran lunged for her and got a hard grip on her upper arm. “Being I’m being was tired too. I’m for to being on the hunting. I’m being getting nothing but some cafop shit honour from mine father about taking for to charging.”

Nyima squirmed, trying to avoid the fetid breath washing over her. “If you’re being tiring going to your own bed,” she suggested, twisting her arm free and wincing.

Taran loomed over her, pushing her back into the furs. “I’m being thinking we’re being marrying our own way and father can being eating himself when we’re being telling him.”

Panic ripped through her. _No! I’m don’t being wanting this!_ “You’re being my brother now,” she reminded him, trying to stay calm. His clumsy fingers fumbled at her clothes, but couldn’t find a way in.

“I’m not ever for to being a brother. I’m being your seha forever.”

“You’re not being my seha,” she spat, kneeing him in the groin. She shoved him onto the floor, moaning. “I’m being choosing mine seha, now getting out.” She shoved with her foot until Taran crawled through the doorway, leaving her alone. She counted heartbeats until she was sure he wasn’t coming back. Then she got up and stripped the furs from her bed and threw them in a corner, along with her bedclothes. She changed everything, then sat down again, watching the doorway. “I’m being understanding now, sudran,” she murmured, wiping her eyes every time tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. “Men are for to being wanting me, but if I’m not being wanting they cannot.” Her head nodded, and she grabbed a knife and got back into bed. _I’m not being wanting you, Taran, so you cannot being taking._ If she wasn’t so grateful to him for saving her life, she’d have beat him, but she owed him more than once. His protection against the ifrit when they were children was the reason he convinced her they could kiss and touch. They had a fate tied together. She believed it again when she fell through a crack in the earth during her hunt initiation. Taran found her three days later clutching a torn scrap of leathery parchment. He didn’t say anything about it and brought her back to the tribe.

Nyima sighed and reached under her furry pillow, feeling for the small hole where she hid the parchment. She pulled out the scrap and looked at it again as she did many nights. She knew what it was, but also not. It was an Aetumuh. Like the ones her father told stories about. This one wasn’t right though. It was a man in one panel and the next a winged beast. _If men can for to being becoming Aetumuh then can anyone?_ She didn't know, but the idea of turning into someone strong and powerful comforted her as she relaxed the grip on her knife and fell into an uneasy sleep.


	15. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten long years passed in which Nyima thought her mother was dead at the hands of the ifrit. Frejari's scheming and a twist of fate have put them back in each other's path at last.

_Ashkenaz held his breath as he tipped the precious black dust into the row of small hollows. The bangle was an experimental piece, and he wasn’t hopeful of its success. Or, more accurately, he hoped it wasn’t a success._

Vasuman entered at a crucial moment, shoving the door open with such force it blew powder everywhere.

“Can you not read!?” Ashkenaz thundered throwing the bangle, though secretly pleased. “The sign says: _do not enter!_ So what do you do? You shove the fucking door open and now I have no materials!”

“You can get more, cripple,” Vasuman sneered, dragging in a bound and gagged Caleen. She kicked him before he tossed her in a corner. “See to her,” he said, turning to leave.

“What?” Ashkenaz looked from the bedraggled woman to Vasuman. “I thought she was staying in your house?”

“Can’t keep up with the demand.” Vasuman shrugged with the admission. “I know you don’t touch them.” He snorted, staring down his hooked nose. “You can watch her until I get back.” He left, slamming the door on his way out and causing the flames in the hearth to dance.

Ashkenaz waited for several beats before going to Caleen and gingerly removing her gag. “I won’t ask if you’re all right,” he said, moving to untie her. “I can end you, if you wish.”

Caleen bared her teeth at him, though she had lost several over the years. “I will not for to being surrendering to them,” she spat. The defiant will remained, though the light in her eyes dimmed.

Ashkenaz fetched water and kept his distance, picking up the bangle he’d thrown at Vasuman. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m not strong like them. I – ”

“I can being seeing you are being different,” Caleen said in a gravelly voice. “You are being knowing he’s for to being going to taking more of my people. There must for to being a way to stop him. It’s being hurting to knowing I cannot being saving my sisters, but being knowing those things are bringing more women here for torturing and killing – I would rather for to being dying than letting another suffering.”

It was a sentiment he heard before. Ashkenaz ran a gnarled finger over the bangle in his hand. “You may be right,” he said after a pause. “Do you see what this is?” He held it up. “It is an elemental bracer. The Sage found a text describing how to make an armoured piece to negate the elements. This is a frost bangle.” A twisting motion took hold of his head, overwhelmed with disgust, and he turned away. “With these the warriors can withstand the cold and head deeper into your people’s territories. There will be nowhere they can escape. The ashes of your sisters are an ingredient.”

A harsh noise came from Caleen, startling him. “You’re truly are being monsters,” she choked out. “You’re being using our bodies and even after we are being dead you using us for more evil.”

“I don’t want to do it!” Ashkenaz spun around. “I’ve been putting off finishing it for seasons!” He limped forward and fell to his knees a few paces from her. “If you showed this to your people, would they be able to do anything to stop them?”

Caleen shook her head.

He got to his feet. “Then, we must take the knowledge and hide it.”

“Why the sudden courage?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Not sudden at all,” Ashkenaz replied, shrugging lopsidedly. “The men left, and the Sage thinks me occupied finishing this. There is no one watching. And, there is this,” he whistled softly and a fluttering noise came from his sleeping area overhead.

“Bwarg?” The suukma flapped down and settled onto the table, its cracked jewel glowing faintly. “I am almost out of my potion and the Sage gave permission to take this one to collect more.” He smiled and shrugged. “I did not think Vasuman would bring you, but he has, so perhaps this is fated.”

Caleen clenched her teeth together; she would not cry. “It’s having being so long,” she muttered, as hope stirred within. “Let’s us being going.”

Ashkenaz nodded. “Soon as I get supplies.”

 

“Are you for to being sure he’s being knowing where he’s being going?” Caleen said in a tired voice. The past three weeks she and Ashkenaz had trailed the suukma as it zipped between the trees, stopping every so often and saying, “Bwarg? Bwarg!” before taking off again. They had limited food supplies. Ashkenaz had no talent for hunting and Caleen was too feeble. Some days, walking a few miles before stopping to rest their aching limbs was the best they could do. The only thing driving Caleen on was the thought of reaching her homeland and warning her people the ifrit would soon attack.

Ashkenaz limped to where Ursn paused and rifled through the undergrowth, pulling up a worn stone slab. “It’s part of a signpost,” he explained, stabbing a finger at the faint grooves. “Ursn can read, even when they’re buried, rotten, or gone; it’s the suukmas talent.”

“How?” Caleen did not know about suukma. The creatures couldn’t survive the snowy lands, and there was something about the way they lived in family groups that made hunters shy against catching them.

“They remember the way the world was and pass that knowledge to their offspring through shared memory.”

The explanation didn‘t make much sense to her. To her the world is unchanging. Caleen eyed the floating creature. The gem in its forehead fizzed and glowed with different intensities. “They‘re being having remembering everything?”

Ashkenaz nodded. “From every generation from the first to the last. Until they’re overwhelmed by the abuse they’ve suffered at my people’s hands. It sends them mad and their purge their minds of everything.”

That, she could relate to. “He isn‘t for to being having long left, correct?” She nodded at Ursn.

“I usually get the sick ones or the ones that are dying,” Ashkenaz confirmed. “They’re probably hoping I don’t come back, although I am the best blacksmith they have, so it would be a mixed blessing.” His chuckle was hollow and filled with self-hatred. “It would be more of a blessing for your people.”

Caleen didn’t reply; she may have found Ashkenaz to be less of a monster than the others, but she could not forget he was still an ifrit. “Is he being lasting long enough to showing us through the jungle?”

“He has a few years left before the madness overtakes him,” Ashkenaz replied. “Ursn is tougher than he looks; like you.” He dipped his head at her and she snorted.

Ursn stalled and flew to Caleen, hiding behind her.

“Wha –”

“Shh.” Ashkenaz put a finger to his lips and edged forward. Moving aside foliage he grimaced. “We have found the warriors,” he whispered.

Caleen ground her teeth, itching to kill them all, but she lacked the strength. “Do they being having captives?” she whispered back, petting Ursn to calm him.

“No.” Ashkenaz scanned the clearing and frowned. “Vasuman is missing.” He eased back and gestured for them to go around the camp. They couldn’t be far from the border now.

 

~*~*~

 

“I’m being hearing you have talent, warrior.” Frejari’s words cut into the conversation and Nyima looked up from her game to see who the Fayth was speaking to. It was her. “But, it’s looking like someone is exaggerating,” she added, smirking at her shaved head. Nyima’s recent run in with a sticky vmyh resulted in her having to shave her head to get rid of the gluey substance. At least the tribe increased their stock from her efforts. 

“I am being young,” Nyima replied, dipping her head in respect. “I’m being having time to honing my skills, Lady Frejari.”

“Perhaps you would like an opportunity tomorrow?”

The words made Nyima sit up straighter. “I am not being worthy,” she said, wondering if Frejari picked the wrong Nyima for the task. Older warriors had the same name.

“I having a need to gathering herbs,” Frejari explained, waving away Nyima‘s refusal. “You are for to being my escort.”

Nyima frowned, wondering why her. “Would you not for to being feeling safer with an elder warrior?”

Frejari’s smile was patient and wise. “Do you doubt the recommendation of a Goddess?”

“A Goddess?” Nyima’s voice held awe. Since the day Blessed Nyima gave put magic in her veins she hadn’t the slightest inkling any of the four paid her attention. _One is for to being watching me?_ How could she insult a Goddess in that case? “I am being having honour the Goddess is paying me such favor.”

“Then, is settled.” Frejari’s smile was the barest twitch of her lips and she swept away, blue robes fluttering in the wind. 

The acolyte with Frejari, until now unnoticed, coughed and said, “Being outside the Fayth‘s hut once you're being finishing your food.” She turned and hurried after Frejari without waiting for a reply.

“Maybe you should for to being handing the task to someone else,” Taran commented once they resumed their game. Since the Fayth didn‘t want to speak to him, he’d stayed silent through the exchange. It bothered him that Frejari chose Nyima for an escort when she was barely a warrior. “A vmyh did being almost eating you.” The same kind of beast killed his mother, and when he’d found Nyima stuck in a tree, with the creature oozing up the trunk towards fear crept into his limbs and stole his strength and courage. He’d run back to the camp and to his father for help. 

Nyima was still nursing the sore knowledge that Taran abandoned her. It took one warrior to kill a vmyh. They weren‘t tough. A good spear strike to their jellified brain took them out. She picked dried goo from her arm, wincing as it tore out hair. “I cannot being refusing the Fayth. Could you?” she replied, moving a piece and raising an eyebrow at him.

“My father could for to being talking with her,” Taran reasoned. “What could you for to being doing if you‘re coming up against another one of those monsters?”

“More than you,” She snapped, voice terse. “No,” she said, shaking her head for added emphasis. “If the Goddess is for to being speaking to the Fayth about me, then it is insulting to ignore her.”

Taran scowled, knocked his playing pieces over and stood up. “You’re for to being inviting Adnu’s interest far too often,” he snapped, clenching his jaw on saying more. He stomped away, barging a man from his path and glaring when challenged.

Nyima rolled her eyes and gathered up the playing pieces. Taran's protective attitude was growing stifling with every passing year. He still said they should run away and marry – start their own tribe. Nyima's single concern was growing strong enough to kill the ifrit who murdered her family. The Fayth wanting her as an escort proved she was on the right track. One day she would be strong enough. No one could stop her.

 

~*~*~

 

“You expecting too much for so little,” Frejari argued in a hiss. She ditched precious Nyima and met with the ifrit, expecting a new batch of pellets for her and her sisters. The greedy bandersnatch demanded a higher price than she could afford. “I have one escort you can being having now and there will being a group of youths entering the forest in three days' time for their first hunt. That is what we‘re agreeing on and what you shall have.”

It was a hard task keeping a careful check of her people’s numbers. Females overwhelmed them, and it seemed at least once a month tribes-people met with her who couldn’t decide on one mate over another. Having convinced them to mate for life took several generations to succeed and now they were falling back into old ways: multiple partners, same gender partners and sex before marriage. She didn’t know how they got around the neutering process, but something needed doing. Such deviancy needed quelling, along with exiling tribes to limit the amount of mixing. It worked in the long term, but the ifrit were still the quickest and easiest way of controlling the population. Still, it wasn’t with abandon that Frejari handed over women to them; they would have the excess only.

“It’s not enough.” Vasuman growled and shook his head. “You gave us more before, do it again.” He smirked down at the old Hag. If he could have, he’d snap her neck and take what he wanted, but their arrangement made things easy for his men to return with Glory without having to fight; except on those occasions the old wretch was wrong with her information.

“I cannot. The tribe I having being giving you are all dead—” she paused and amended, “– _almost_ all dead. Mine escort is one. You can have her now.”

This piece of information interested Vasuman. Caleen was special; a last remaining survivor, though she was losing her appeal with age. He assumed they gathered the whole tribe. He wouldn‘t back down without more. “You – ”

“Monster!” Caleen sprang from the bushes, blade in hand. She flew past Vasuman and plowed into Frejari. They toppled to the ground and rolled. Caleen straddled her and pummelled her in the face. She drew back her fist over and over, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You gave us to them!” She screamed over and over, punctuating each sentence with a punch. 

Frejari struggled, choking on blood and screaming. “Helping me!” She gagged and swallowed a tooth Caleen knocked out.

“Well, look what escaped.” Vasuman chuckled, folding his arms and watching with amusement. He let it continue until the Hag had enough. He made to grab Caleen, but stumbled forward, grunting. He looked over his shoulder. “Where did this come from?” He yanked the knife out of from between the joints in his armour. A lucky strike.

“Lady Frejari!” Nyima darted around the ifrit and ran toward Frejari, skidding to a halt, eyes widening. “Mother?”

Caleen paused, fist covered in blood and flesh. She stared at Nyima, not connecting the woman to her child. “Who – ”

Vasuman snatched the back of Caleen’s tunic and hauled her off Frejari.

“Letting go of me, monster!” She kicked and swung her fists at him.    
“Your daughter?” He laughed and struck Caleen. “That is nice.” Cold blue eyes swept over Nyima, lingering at her breasts and thighs. “We’ll come back to terms another time,” he said to Frejari.  
The old woman groaned, breaths harsh and laboured.   
He pointed at Nyima. “This one will do, along with the scouts you promised.”

“Promised?” Nyima wanted to look Frejari, but she knew better than to take her eyes off an ifrit. It still had her mother, and that was something she was struggling to understand on a whole other level.

The ifrit shook Caleen like a rag doll, but before he could do anything else, someone shoved from behind, making him release both woman and knife.

Caleen dropped to the ground and bit back a moan. She snatched up the knife and turned, plunging it into the same spot Nyima had. “Run, mine babe!” 

Nyima jerked at the familiar command. “I can being helping!” She took a step, then stopped. The thing that knocked the ifrit over turned out to be another ifrit. _I… I’m being fearful. Mother. Help._

“Go!” 

That wasn‘t the help she wanted. Nyima shook her head and swallowed. Her vision blurred with tears. “Mother, please?”

The ifrit swung Caleen around, though she clung onto the knife for dear life.  
“Go!”

Nyima choked back a sob and ran. _I’m for to being getting help! I’m coming back!_

 

“Taran, help!” Nyima slammed into him, unable to stop in time. “Mine ma—she hitting Frejari—in the jungle—ifrit!”

“Nyima, being calming down,” Taran said, taking hold of her upper arms and noting the tear-stained face. “You’re not being making any sense. Your ma is being dead,” he said in as gentle a voice as he could. “You must being having a nightmare.”

“No!” Nyima pulled free and twisted, looking for Sen. _He will for to being believing me!_

“Nyima—”   
An inhuman roar echoed across the camp. The sound came from the jungle.   
“Ifrit?” Taran swallowed and snatched hold of Nyima’s hand. “Come. We can’t being fighting them!” He dragged her to Sen‘s hut.  
“Letting go, Taran! Mine ma!” Nyima struggled and twisted her grip, but he wouldn‘t let go.

Taran snatched supplies and stuffed them into a pack. “That’s being it,” he muttered. “I’m not being going through this again.” His smile was grim as he looked at Nyima. “We’ll for to being stopping at the Fayth’s hut for their blessing and leaving. When ifrit are for to being done, no one is for to being alive to arguing.”

Nyima watched him pack up his life and part of hers, uncaring of her wishes. _He‘s never being caring about me. Not really. He is being caring only that I do what he_ “I’m being going to help,” she said in a quiet voice.

Taran looked over his shoulder and her and rolled his eyes. “You‘re not.”

“Yes, I am.” She headed to the doorway.

Taran was up and in front of her before she could lift the flap. “Nyima, your mother is being dead!” He took her hand. “You’re being chasing ghosts for the sake of ghosts.”

“I would rather for to being chasing a brave ghost than remaining with a living coward!” she spat, yanking her hand free and snatching the pack from him. “I’m being going to help,” she repeated, storming out of the hut.

The tribes-people formed ranks to take on the ifrit if they appeared from the trees. Nyima ran around them all, ignoring calls to come back.   
Fear turned her legs to jelly at the edge of the jungle. She stumbled and crashed to her knees. A sob leapt from her throat. “Ma! I’m being wanting to help! I’m being afeared, ma!”

“Bwarg?”

Nyima sniffed and wiped her eyes. A fluffy bear with wings flapped in front of her. “A suukma?” It had a cracked red gem in its forehead and pointed a little claw back at the trees.

“Bwarg. Bwarg.” It fluttered down to the ground and put its little paw on her hand. “Bwarg,” it said in a firm voice.

“I don’t being understanding what you‘re saying, but I’m agreeing.” She stood and took a step.

“Bwarg.” The suukma shook its head. It flapped its wings and flew away from both the jungle and the camp.

“But, my mother...” Nyima gestured, trying to hold back another wave of tears. When the suukma didn’t change course, she realised her choice was to stay on the path she knew, or make a new one. She was too late to take the path she’d wanted to.

 

~*~*~

 

Vasuman sat back against a tree, panting. He had to admit that Ashkenaz was a more worthy opponent than he’d ever expected. But, he was no match for him. The twisted and bloody corpse lay close to the Hag, who expired sometime between him fighting his woman and finishing Ashkenaz.

His roar of triumph brought men running from their camp. They weren’t to learn Ashkenaz was dead, but the promise of more Glory than they could ever imagine soothed their rage.

With the Fayth dead he had no easy supply anymore, but there were plenty on the far side of the jungle. “Ursn!” he’d yelled, having spied the useless little thing hiding in a tree. “Go find me Glory!”

The suukma sped off, too fast for the men to follow and they spent wasted hours crashing around the jungle searching for the way out. Vasuman, more used to the suukma’s tricks, kept pace. He’d stopped at the edge, saving from becoming a target for all the ice weavers. Watching the traitorous Ursn helping the daughter of his woman he’d licked his lips. Under the heavy layers of fur was a ripe figure, perfect for fucking. If she had half as much spirit as her mother she’d be fun. Disappointment hit when she didn’t come towards him, but turned and headed off into the snow. The rear view was good as the front and he rubbed his crotch, anticipating having her. His travelled to the camp, filled with warriors ready to ice him. If he turned back, the jungle trapped him, same as his men. Unless one got lucky and found their camp where the other suukma was they‘d grow mad and die long before they escaped the cursed jungle. They had no women left, anyway. He was looking at a slow death brought on by madness. He stared at the departing woman again and dug his hand into his pack for the metal bangle he’d taken from Ashkenaz. “This will protect me from the cold.” He had a third choice, and it was the best one. “You’re a useless fuck now, Caleen, but your daughter‘s fresh as snow.” He followed the tree line past the warriors and out into the icy lands.

 


	16. North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyima and the suukma, Ursn, head north searching for the fabled city of Ym'pree. After two years battling deepest cold and a pursuing ifrit, they're almost there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger: Sexual assault.

“You’re being having no idea where we are?” Nyima directed her question to her chest, where Ursn tucked himself away between layers of furs to keep warm.

“Bwarg,” came the annoyed, yet muffled reply.

“If you’re being knowing, where are we?” Nyima couldn’t believe she was arguing with a flying ball of fluff, but Ursn was the only choice for conversation. She realised if she didn’t want to travel in silence to get over her reluctance in looking foolish.

 

Setting out after the suukma, Nyima soon noticed the provisions Taran packed would only last a few days, and missed several key items. Running into another tribe ended up being a bigger blessing than she could have guessed. The tribe were outcasts, but friendly, though Nyima stayed wary as she met with the Chief.

“Where are for to being your tribe?” was her first question.

“Dead,” Nyima replied, defensive. Her brows pinched as she fought picturing her mother’s face. “I am for to being following this suukma.” She gestured to Ursn.

The woman’s brows rose at the admission. “We would for to being welcoming news from the Crux, if you’re being having any.”

When Nyima mentioned Frejari’s death the Chief stopped her.

“She’s dead? Truly?”

“Yes,” Nyima nodded. “I’m being seeing it with mine own eyes.” She didn’t expect the reaction it got.

“We can for to being going home!”

“We won’t being outcast anymore!”

“Ela will for to being believing our words without the Fayth to corrupting him!”

“What are you being talking about?” Nyima’s confusion cut through the din.

“Frejari is being declaring us a cursed tribe,” the Chief explained, waving a couple forward. They came carrying two j’throk.

The babies had the same face. “Is this being magic?”

“They are being blessed as each other’s image. Are they being looking evil to you?” Their mother stared hard at Nyima who shook her head.

“They being looking like j’throk.” She’d seen nothing like it, but it was wonderful.

The women heaved a breath, and a sob came from her throat. “They are,” she said. “Frejari is being punishing us for this.” Guilt laid heavy creases in her brow and bowed her back.

“For two being looking alike?” Frejari’s actions confused her.

The Chief gave the mother a hug and gestured to take the children away. “She was being saying when they’re growing they will for to being bringing misery to women who cannot being telling the difference between them.”

Nyima struggled to believe a Faythful would make this decision, but an entire tribe telling the same lie was also strange. “She is being dead,” she promised. “You can for to being going to the Crux and explaining. Ela is always being fair.” _When he is being awake._ “You might for to being too late, for the Ifrit are coming.”

As thanks for the positive news, the tribe offered the missing supplies she needed. They waived her offer of a bangle in payment and asked that she give other outcasts the news if she met any.

 

That first year, Nyima met many tribes and told the same story over. She never lost her surprise at the reasons Frejari exiled them. The Nyx brought her up on the understanding the Fayth spoke for the Goddesses. Either Frejari lied or their Goddesses were cruel.

She made slow progress north, her path made easier with the gzigmehkn she traded most of her jewellery for. The approaching winter concerned her, forcing her to seek shelter for several days at a time. Bred to live in the harsh climate, she had her limits and so did the white bird-mount. Sometimes the silence undid her, and she screamed into the wind to hear a voice thrown back in echo. She’d never known loneliness like this. Even when she pushed the Nyx away, she had them. If she hadn’t attempted to understand Ursn she believed she’d go mad.

One evening, she sculpted a life-size copy of her mother, as company not animal shaped. It also distracted her from how cold it was, though she couldn’t stop shivering. She burned through her stock of peat some months ago and spent her nights snuggled into the gzigmehkn, with Ursn on her lap.

“Bwarg?” Ursn shuffled over and patted Nyima’s leg.

“Mine mother,” she answered, tilting her head and frowning. “She was being older in the jungle, but this is how I’m being knowing her.”

“Bwarg,” Ursn said, hopping to the sleeping gzigmehkn and snuggling. “Bwarg.”

“I’m being along,” she replied, staring at the frozen face. “What was for to being happening to you?” she murmured. “Why didn’t you being coming back sooner?” She raised her voice. “Did you being thinking I didn’t needing you? That I was being dead?” Sadness and anger held in check for years spilled forth. “Why did you leaving me alone!”

“It was not her fault.”

Nyima spun around. She peered into the depths of the cave. “Who?”

“I suppose the fault, in the end, is mine.” Clad in black, a figure with midnight skin, starlight freckles and silver hair stepped forward.

Nyima’s eyes widened. “Goddess.” A crack echoed as she dropped to her knees and bowed her head.

“I shouldn’t have taken pity on him.” Her words seemed directed at some distant point on the wall.

“Him?” Nyima sat up, mouthing the question.

Adnu nodded. “Your father. His heart begged me not to take you and your mother, so I did not.” She looked at Nyima with pity. “To delay death is to invite pain.”

She didn’t understand. “Mine should being died long ago?” She shook her head, rejecting it. “If that is being true I would having being dying with mine tribe. I did not.” She got up and stared into Adnu’s bottomless blue eyes. “Mine people were being facing hardship and pain many times, but we surviving.” The more she spoke, the more she knew the Goddesses weren’t as the Fayth taught them. “We being having a will of our own. We being deciding the path we’re taking.”

“Your path has led you to a hole,” Adnu replied, leaning down and invading Nyima’s personal space. “Your path is a cold and lonely one. Who is this we you speak of?”

“I’m not being alone,” she argued, though her lower lip trembled. “I’m being having him.” She gestured to Ursn.

“Aukoo’s servant?” Adnu hadn’t noticed him until then. Suukma were Aukoo’s fancy. Silly creatures she used as messengers before the Fracture.

Ursn opened sleepy eyes then hopped to attention. “Bwarg! Bwarg Bwarg, Bwarg,” he said, in what sounded like an introduction.

“This one is Ursn,” Adnu informed Nyima. “He is a peacemaker.” Her thoughtful hum echoed throughout the cave. “He is taking you to someone who can help.”

Nyima frowned. _This is being nowhere. Who can being surviving so far north? Is this being the reason we’re travelling all this time?_ “Who?”

“He leads you to the city of Ym’pree and the Hall of Justice.” He was taking her to Aukoo’s territory. Pity she wasn’t there. If they were lucky a roaming Aetumuh might have mercy on them.

Nyima’s breaths grew short with excitement. _Father’s picture; the other things. They’re all being true. Aetumuh are being real. Taran, you’re being wrong._ She looked at Ursn, wanting it to confirm Adnu’s words. “Aetumuh?”

“Bwarg.” He nodded.

She frowned and tipped her head to the side. “How can they being helping?”

“They serve those higher than us,” Adnu admitted after a long silence. “Their duty is to aid.” She looked to the mouth of the cave where dawn lit the sky. “It appears the night has passed.” She wondered if this was her sister’s plan. Send her to claim the girl knowing Adnu’s curiosity about their family line. Keeping Nyima awake talking saved her life. It wasn’t intentional, though Adnu felt an odd gratefulness over it. “Death will catch up with you eventually, child,” she said, heading out.

“You, too,” Nyima replied in a grim voice, not realising it was a warning.

 

~*~*~

 

That first year was hard, but as the weather warmed, Vasuman found it easier going. The frost bangle helped stave off the worst of the cold. He lost the tips of two fingers and most of his toes from frost-blight. The girl’s unwitting accompanying of Ursn made the trail easier to follow. A chip from the gem in its forehead sat around his neck, linking the path it carved back to his location. Still, the amount of times he got lost or needed to divert around ice-dwelling tribes made his quest that much harder. He had no clue at the large numbers of people on the frozen side. His kind were few in comparison. It wasn’t fair. The cursed ifrit died out, while the tribes grew. He and his brothers had no hand in the fate dealt by the Goddess. Their crime was they were born on the wrong side of the jungle. He spat hate for Sylmy and more for Frejari, who could have given him so many more women to take home. The selfish Hag knew how they suffered—bargained the Sage for her life long ago in return for helping them. Still, she withheld most and gave them few. _Caleen should have beat her disgusting face to a larger pulp. Next time I’ll help her._

In his cursed and fevered mind, he rewrote events. Caleen was his willing woman, lusting for him. In the clearing she offered her daughter to show love and devotion. In a jealous fit, Ashkenaz killed her, so he had to take revenge. There was nothing to occupy Vasuman’s thoughts now besides the girl. _Caleen gave her to me. She’s mine. My sweet little fuck. Mine._ The thought ran round his mind until it became the only thing. He’d never reached the point of insatiable lust as others had. It itched his loins, burned in his veins. He clawed his head until he bled, trying to scrape the need from his skull. He made holes in the snow and thrust until he spent. It left him cold, damp and chapped. He risked losing his dick trying to satisfy himself. The one thing stopping him turning back and fucking the nearest tribe to extinction was he wouldn’t find a tribe in time. His one option was the girl. She was close. He gained on her every day. The further north they went the slower her mount grew. _And she leaves helpful markers._ He spotted another ice statue standing guard by an abandoned shelter. She didn’t tear down the things she made and had a habit of creating images of her mother to keep her company. The first time Vasuman saw Caleen’s visage stunned him. He ran up and smeared his lips over hers. When he felt the cold touch and growing wetness, he mistook it for reciprocation and threw his arms around her. The statue cracked in half and fell to the ground.

They made for a decent trail whenever he lost the one left by Ursn. It also provided him easy shelter because the girl could weave ice like nothing he’d ever seen. Along with Caleen’s statue and a hut there was an occasional addition. An elder man with a warm smile that Vasuman knocked the head off of. The times a young man guarded the way made him laugh. The girl knew a man, or liked one enough to sculpt. Was she running away to find him? He didn’t know their destination, and his sense wavered preventing him from questioning the chase.

 

It was well into the second year and Vasuman knew he grew close. He ran like a beast on hands and feet, covering more distance where her mount plodded through thickening snow. As the sun dipped below the horizon, he spied a cave mouth with a familiar statue standing guard. The girl’s talent grew and if he didn’t know it wasn’t real he’d swear it was Caleen in the flesh. He straightened up and mashed his mouth to icy lips. As they melted against his heat, he imagined it was she inviting his tongue. He licked her mouth, wishing there was a hole to stick his tongue into.

A bird call caught his ear, and he pulled back, caressing Caleen’s cheek. “Finally.” He entered the cave, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The white bird curled around the girl. In her lap, his traitorous suukma. Vasuman’s mouth split into a grin. He went down onto his haunches and lunged. Landing on top of the girl, he threw the suukma aside and clawed at her clothes. “Fuck you,” he grunted, tearing heavy furs as she came awake.

She kicked. Struggled. Fought hard. Punched him in the jaw. “No!”

Ice shards struck his eyes. He reared back, bellowing. “Fuck! Mine!”

“Never!” Crouching, she held an icy blade.

Vasuman laughed at the feeble thing and lunged again. Knocking her to the ground, he pinned her. “Want fuck!” He tore a fur off and started on the next. Pawing. Kneading her ass. Grabbing her thighs. Thrusting his pelvis at her.

“Letting me go!” She fought back, twisting. The knife flashed in her hand. Furious yelling. She slashed and hit armour.

He grabbed her wrist and smacked it against the ground. Arm numb, she lost her grip. He took both hands and pinned them over her head. The other dug into her stomach, trying to find her trouser waistband. The more she twisted and fought, the more she reminded him of Caleen. “Oh, Caleen. Mine fuck.” He ached. He needed her. He freed himself and jabbed. Poked her thigh.

“No!”

A small ball of fur struck him in the head. “Ursn, you little shit!” He grabbed the girl’s dagger and swung.

Ursn squeaked in pain.

“No!”

A wave of wet heat followed a searing, tearing pain. Vasuman stopped his assault and clamped a hand to his head. The bitch ripped his ear off with her teeth! She spat a bloody piece of flesh at him and rolled to freedom.

“Never,” she said in a low voice, flinging four short ice spears at him. One pierced his calf, pinning him.

“Fuck you!”

“Never!” The girl scooped up the bleeding suukma and leapt on the back of her gzigmehkn. The trio left before Vasuman pulled the spear from his leg. He pushed upright using the wall, waiting as a wave of dizziness threatened to take him down again. He felt blood spurt from his ear with every furious beat of his heart. “That little bitch is taking a piece of me?!” He couldn’t believe it. “I’m taking a piece of her! Every piece!” He limped after her, but his leg gave out at the cave mouth. He crawled back in and used her supplies to bandage his leg. She’d have to come back for them or risk dying during the night. “I win at last.” He comforted himself by imagining all the things he’d do to her until he left her a bloody mess of flesh.

 

~*~*~

 

“Staying awake, Ursn,” Nyima urged, as she steered the gzigmehkn with her knees. Coming awake to find an ifrit’s stinking breath washing over her was something she couldn’t imagine. She panicked and hadn’t thought how best to fight it off until it ripped her clothes off. She shuddered and shook off the sense memory. “That thing is not being anything.” She hated the ifrit even more. They were abusers. Beasts. They didn’t know gentle touch. She did. She shivered again, this time from cold. She’d left two layers and her bag in the cave. It was dark and cold. She had an injured creature, and it was snowing again. “How did an ifrit being making it this far north?” she questioned through chattering teeth. “I’m being thinking it’s the one that’s killing mother,” she added, glancing down at Ursn. “Please talking to me. You’re being knowing I’m hating silence.” She tried to still her crushing anxiety. She was alone. “I’m not being alone,” she argued. “I’m being having Ursn.”

Ursn was in a bad state. Ifrit stabbed him in the head, cracking the red gem further. He had a second injury from when Ifrit threw him. Nyima did the best with what she had, bandaging his stomach, but the little creature grew quiet and still, then jerked awake.

“Please, Ursn.” Nyima tried to sound calm, but it was too much to ask. “Please, don’t being leaving me here alone. I’m needing you.”

“Bwarg,” he replied in a limp tone. “Bwarg, Bwarg.”

Nyima hugged him, blood staining her furs. “Please, don’t being dying,” she whispered, glancing from his furry face to the horizon, though she didn’t know what she was looking for. “Ursn?” She shook him. “Ursn?”

“Bwaarg?”

She let out a relieved sigh. “Where do we for to being needing to going? I cannot being finding my way without your help. We must reach Ym’pree.” She hoped reminding him of the quest would give him strength.

Ursn’s tiny wings fluttered, and he pointed straight ahead before dropping off to sleep.

Nyima swallowed the rising lump in her throat. She knew Ursn was dying. Without him she didn’t know where to go. She had no supplies, no friends and no help. She had no food for the gzigmehkn, so she’d have to kill it before it starved. Its meat would keep her going for a few more days, but then what? She was farther north than anyone. If she didn’t reach Ym’pree soon; _this is being the ending._


	17. The Hall of the Aetumuh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyima arrived. She made it. She wasn't expecting what she found. She didn't know what price the Aetumuh wanted. It's fine. She has nothing left to offer besides the thing they want. If it gets her to her goal they can have it.

The city was strange as the wall, covered in ice and snow. When Nyima came upon tombs, it shocked her to see peoples’ poses. Some were in the middle of tasks; others fleeing. They were all men. No women or children anywhere. She looked down to share the observation with Ursn and discovered he’d died. “Oh, Ursn.” She stroked his downy head. “I’m being so sorry.” She didn’t need his pathfinding skills anymore. His company was something she’d wanted to keep.

Nyima entombed him at the base of a hill. Staggered ledges led up to a towering building; larger and grander than any Chief’s hut she knew. She clenched her fists, drawing her hands upwards. Ice crept over Ursn’s body, sealing him forever. She wiped tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’m for to being going to kill him,” she promised, speaking of the cursed ifrit. “I’m being going to cut him to pieces.” She glared at the frozen suukma, seeing the ifrit instead. “I’m being promising you.” With some reluctance, Nyima left Ursn and climbed the staggered hill.

 

The hall impressed her. The ceiling curved upwards, reaching high as a peak. With cautious fingers she touched the walls, expecting compacted snow. “Stone?” Tiny silver threads traced across the surface. “Pretty. How are builders for to being making this?” She tapped. Looked for seams in individual bricks. Found none. Her eyes widened, awestruck. She wasted time there, assuming she needed to do something.  On a wall hung a fabric square. It had pictures like those on her parents’ tattoos. She followed the designs with a finger, trying not to cry at the familiar images. “I’m lost,” she whispered. “I’m being needing help.” It wasn’t until she twisted a strange metal bar that she found a second room adjoining it. “Is this one being a meeting place?” she wondered aloud. Her father used their main room for such. She looked around, remembered she was alone. Tears burned her eyes. “Don’t being crying now,” she scolded. “It’s being not useful to anyone.” Her brow furrowed with effort, but she sniffed and moved forward. “Ursn was having bringing me here for help.” _Whose help? Is someone being here who can being killing ifrit? All the ifrit?_ She glanced over her shoulder as a frigid breeze chilled the back of her neck. “It’s not being there. I’m fine.”

Nyima left the smaller hallway and entered a larger chamber. Round stone towers went from floor to ceiling. Between them stone tombs. She stopped dead. “This isn’t being a place to finding help,” she murmured. “This is being a place for mourning.” Had she chosen wrong? It was the most grand. She assumed she should go there. The tombs weren’t like her people’s. These were stone. The figures strange. The poses odd. One woman had wings spreading from her back like gzigmehkn. She frowned. “I’m being knowing you.” The woman featured in her father’s picture, along with metal men. She turned. “A beast?” A hood obscured most of their features, but a muzzle stuck out. “Animals can being Aetumuh?” Nyima shrugged, not knowing what to make of it. The city alone was more alien than anything she’d ever seen. Knowing Aetumuh existed and came in forms her tribe would hunt for dinner was something else. She ran past the rest, trying not to gawk at the giant plant. Tendrils curled across the floor and her heart jumped in her throat when she thought they moved.

Reaching the head of the room her gaze started upwards. What she thought was decoration, flourishes to stone, was Aukoo’s skirts. With arms positioned outwards, Nyima craned her neck trying to see what she held. “A bowl?” She climbed a short staggered hill and looked again. “Two bowls?” Suspended on chains, with a pole in the centre. “What is that being for?” She backed up and hit a table. Knocked a cup to the floor. The sound echoed. “What am I being doing now?” she called. “Is anyone being here?!” Nothing. “What am I being doing now?” Her voice echoed. Alone in an empty hall with nothing but statues for company. And she doubted they’d come to life and help. She wandered, touching strange objects and finding another room. Inside it smelled musty. Old. The sour odour got up her nose and she sneezed. “Can’t anyone being helping me?!” Coughing, she retreated to the stone table. “What now?” she repeated with a helpless shrug. She had no plan. No friends. Not even Ursn. Her mount wouldn’t survive without food. Neither would she. “Am I being dying here?” She sagged. Elbows resting against the table, she sighed and shut her eyes. Driven on by force of will alone the sense of failure and disappointment crushed her spirit. “I’m failing. Sudran, I’m failing.”

The chill receded. She didn’t notice at first. Too lost in wallowing. Footsteps scraping had her eyes springing open. She threw herself to the side on instinct, avoiding the ifrit’s grasping claws.

“My fuck,” it hissed, teeth baring in a frightening smile.

“No!” Breaths came sharp. She backed away. Put the table between them. Kept circling. “No! No!” Flung her hand out, blowing ice into its face. “No!” She sobbed. _I’m not being_   _dying this way!_

The ifrit grinned. Insanity claimed it. A mad look filled its eyes. It wouldn’t stop. “My fuck,” the Ifrit said.

Nyima’s soul shrank with disgust. She coughed, retched. “No!”

The ifrit lunged across the table, sweeping its claws.

“Help!” She lobbed a ball of ice at it. The sphere shattered, encasing its head. “How?” She looked at her hand in surprise. _I’ve never being done that afore._ However, she did it, she had time to put distance between them. She ran. 

The ifrit slammed its head into the ground, cracking the ice.

 _Mad._ Nyima looked for something to help. “There?” If she could get into the bowl Aukoo held the ifrit couldn’t reach her. It couldn’t use its claws like she did her hands. _I’m being safe with Aukoo._ She skirted the hall and found a handhold. 

Ifrit grabbed her ankle.

She screamed. Kicked it in the face.

It let go.

 _Hurry!_ “Please, Goddess, I’m begging! Helping me!” She climbed. Eyes watered. Hands slick with sweat. She slipped. Grabbed. Climbed again. Crawled along the Goddess’s arm. A far leap to the bowl. _Too far? No! Please!_ She stood. Heard the ifrit bellowing obscenities. Slipped. Scrabbled for purchase. Her heart choked air from her throat. _Calming down. It can‘t being following. It’s being too stupid. Calming down._ She drew a breath. Glanced at it leaping for her. It hooked its claws into the statue. Her eyes widened. _It’s being coming. Jump! Falling and dying is better than it!_ She crouched. Sprang. The bowl came within reach. “Ah!” Pain as her fingers crunched. She hung. Pulled her other arm up. Swung back and forth. Got a leg up. Rolled in. Safe.

A growl. 

Nyima stuffed a hand in her mouth to silence her sobs. Glanced over. _Ifrit._ It watched her with frightening intensity. _Aukoo, please!_

Ifrit leapt and landed in the other bowl.

Nyima shuffled back. “No, please,” she whispered, swallowing. Ifrit’s bowl dropped out of sight. Hers raised up. She clung on, letting out a cry.

**Judgement.**

Nyima gasped. “Who?!”

**Nyima uv dra C’Deney. Do you not want help, child?**

The language was hers, but strange to her ears. It didn’t sound right. “No. Yes.” She didn’t know. “Who are you?” Her eyes darted around. “Aukoo?” She peeked over the edge of the bowl. The ifrit thrashed in his; couldn’t escape. 

**Not Aukoo.**

_“Who?”_ Her nerves frazzled. The enemy sat below and the voice played with her. “Making sense!”

**Down here.**

She looked past Ifrit. A metal person waved. She gasped, jolted back. Fear stole her nerve. She hid.  

**Did you not want help, child?**

The amused tone grated. “How is this being helping me?!” She debated leaving the bowl. The metal person might hurt her.

**You begged for help. I am here.**

She frowned. The words sounded odd. Wrong. “I’m being wanting help for to being killing those beasts!” She lunged to the side and pointed at Ifrit.

“Fuck! My fuck!”

She cringed; hid again. “Helping me?” she said, voice small. “Please, for to being helping me.”

An echoing hum. **A small matter. The Aetumuh can wipe them out for you.**

 _No._ She shook her head. “I’m being wanting to kill them,” she replied in a dark tone. “They’re being owing me blood. I’m being wanting their blood. I’m being going to kill them.”

**How interesting. You want to kill them?**

In the thoughtful silence that followed Nyima recalled the drawing she found. It depicted a person turning into an Aetumuh. She thought. “Yes. I’m being wanting to kill them. Can you for to being helping me?” Would they make her an Aetumuh? “I’ll for to being doing anything you’re asking.” 

**You know what you ask for, child?**

Nyima nodded. She thought she did. “Power. Strength. You’re for to being making me strong enough to kill them all.” She sent a hateful look to the ifrit. It jumped. Hit an invisible wall.

“Fuck you!” It punched a barrier. “I’ll fuck you till you die!”

Nyima shuddered. “No!”

**There is a price.**

She looked at the metal person. “I don’t care.” If they made her strong enough, it was worth any price. The Aetumuh disagreed and explained, anyway.

**The Aetumuh shall grant you power, but you must serve. We shall take you from this place and you shall not return until you have fulfilled the conditions.**

She had no clue what that meant. _Conditions?_ “I’m being agreeing.” 

**Power has side effects.**

_What? I’m don’t being understanding._ Would they leave if she asked? She couldn’t risk it. Ifrit would get her. She’d rather die. “I don’t being caring.”

Metal clinked as the Aetumuh gestured she climb down.

Nyima slipped from the bowl. Hung. Swung. Aimed for the table. Landed and rolled off, coming up on her feet. She turned and saw the ifrit trying to throw itself out, but remained stuck. “Why?” She pointed.

**It is the judgement of your souls.**

She didn’t know what that meant, but if it kept the ifrit from touching her she was pleased. The Aetumuh placed a piece of fabric on the table, rolling and pinning it open with a heavy-bottomed stick. 

**Are the terms agreeable?**

Nyima edged closer, eyeing the Aetumuh. Her gaze flicked to the paper, and she sucked in a breath. Strange symbols appeared, some the same as her parents’ tattoos. She didn’t recognise the rest. “Yes.” She didn’t care what it said. She wanted power. She’d kill the ifrit and save the other tribes. No price was too high for peace.

**Ten-thousand victories to an Aetumuh is simple. You wish to save lives, then you must _save lives._**

_What does that being meaning? “Ten-thousand victories?” How can I being doing that? Fighting who?_ Saving her peoples’ lives counted. Who else could she save? “What must I being doing?”

**Sign.**

Nyima frowned, looking lost. 

The Aetumuh opened its palm and mimed stabbing a finger. 

A head tilt, more head shaking.

**You must sign in blood.**

She assumed signing was like giving a token. Using a pin of ice she dug the pad of her finger until blue blood welled. She jabbed the fabric a few times, making rough marks. “Is that being enough?”

**You — can you write?**

It was the first sign of uncertainty. Nyima shrugged.

**Dear Goddess. Can you read?**

She edged back. “What’s that?”

**Oh no.**

Whatever the Aetumuh’s problem, it was too late. The page Nyima signed glowed. Symbols turned from blue to white, then disappeared. Glyphs appeared on the walls. Came from the walls. Turned to ribbons of magic that swirled around Nyima. A cold wind blew. Colder than any she’d felt. Colder than the Goddess’s touch.

**Your power comes from the divine.** **This shall be interesting.**


End file.
